


pyroxene of the heart

by fuwaesthetic



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Mistletoe, One-Sided Attraction, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Graduation, Surprise Kissing, Youkai, kiss day, the rating changed because of ch12 i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 14:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 31,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13148973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuwaesthetic/pseuds/fuwaesthetic
Summary: a collection of writings; characters, pairs, etc to be added as needed.18. subanatsu: “I saidtouch,” Natsume snaps, fingers curling tighter. “Not kiss. Learn to listen, Baru-kun.”19. maoritsu: “If you really wanted to eat me, you would’ve done it the first time instead of throwing dirt at me.”20. gen: To say he regrets it immediately is putting it lightly.21. gen: "Don't speak," the boy cuts in, placing a hand over Tsukasa's mouth, "and don't even think about leaving. Sena's really bad at taking care of people, so you're still on death's door, yeah?"22: eiwata: Content to be alive, to be living, Eichi runs his fingers through Wataru's hair and closes his eyes, too, wondering that if he sleeps now, so close to him, they'll meet in their dreams as well.23. subanatsu: There are things that have changed since the day he approached Subaru in that empty classroom—





	1. eimugi: mistletoe

It isn't a secret that Eichi is a fan of Christmas; his family holds a big party every year, and he does his best to be strong enough to attend in some way—even if tonight, that's only reclining in a chair as he nurses some water and hopes the pain in his muscles eases sooner rather than later. Participating in the Starlight Festival was only natural, and the consequences are, too. As much as he dislikes it, as much as he dislikes how easily winded he becomes...  
  
This, too, is a sign of being alive.  
  
He spies a familiar mop of dark hair milling about with purpose and deduces that Tsumugi must have some sort of business here; he's proven right when he sees him carrying bouquets, apparently on personal delivery duty, and he smiles. Always such a tireless worker... He forces himself to stand and set aside his drink, ignoring the way his legs want to shake as he strides over.  
  
Tsumugi's look of pleasant surprise is one he'll treasure for a long time yet, he thinks, and he laughs softly as it relaxes. "This  _is_  my family's house, Tsumugi."  
  
"I thought you might be asleep, Eichi-kun... 'fine' worked hard earlier, after all."  
  
Eichi agrees with a hum, then peers at the last bouquet in his hands. No sender and no addressee—one for Tsumugi himself, maybe? To that mother of his or something... No, on closer inspection, the flowers here are a little strange. Poinsettias, holly, and a crown of mistletoe make it a very fitting bouquet for the party, Christmas-themed that it is, but the actual meanings are muddy... unless there isn't a meaning to it, right now. He glances back up at Tsumugi, head tilted curiously, and gives the flowers a small gesture.  
  
"Who are these for?"  
  
Tsumugi holds them out wordlessly, and Eichi gives a soft 'ah' as he takes them.  _From whom,_  he almost asks, but he thinks he knows without even doing so. "Thank you," he says instead, studying the mistletoe before he motions Tsumugi closer. When he obeys, Eichi leans in and brushes a chaste kiss across the bridge of his nose, laughing softly.   
  
"If I hadn't," he murmurs, "we'd both be cursed with misfortune for the rest of our lives... We can't have that, can we, Tsumugi?"


	2. leokasa: mistletoe

Leo Tsukinaga is a mystery to him, even several years after they've both graduated. He's still the same height he ever was, even with Tsukasa growing slightly taller than him in time, and he's still the same brand of melancholic seriousness mixed with an ever cheerful spirit that becomes enthusiastic over anything he feels like inspired by. Tonight's session of helping him compose ("help" that is mostly Tsukasa listening to Leo hum snatches of songs beneath his breath and keep him company while Izumi's away, and partially suggestions for song names dictated in perfected English) ends with several cans of beer and Leo straddling his middle, face red with alcohol.  
  
He's not in perfect shape either, to be honest; he's never been good at holding his own against any type of drink, and his movements feel too languid to keep up with Leo—like he's a first year again, lagging behind his seniors. They haven't even done anything aside from getting in the position they're in, Leo content to stare and poke at his face in the way that drunks do while he feels increasingly too heavy and too warm.  
  
It's gone too soon, though, with Leo sliding off and wandering away for something. Tsukasa slowly sits up, cradling the side of his face in his hand with a sigh (disappointment? relief? he can't place it, not with thoughts simply swimming by instead of staying in one place), and jolts when Leo returns and plops right in his lap with a victorious grin.  
  
The reason for it becomes readily apparent: there's mistletoe between his fingers, wiggling between them, and Tsukasa immediately raises his hands to slap over Leo's mouth when he goes in for a kiss. Leo whines against them, and Tsukasa starts to say something, but it gets interrupted by a squeal when a wet tongue plasters itself against his palms, shoving between his fingers. He jerks his hands away, rubbing the spit off on his shirt and only realizing his mistake when Leo laughs softly, leaning in.  
  
"Gotcha, Suo."  
  
It's a surprisingly sweet kiss, despite the sour-bitter taste of cheap beer, and Tsukasa melts into Leo's pace when he cups his cheek when things turn a little more heated. They're both gasping for air when they break, and Leo grins at him before he slips off to the side and curls up on the couch beside him, only adjusting to lay his head in his lap.  
  
Tsukasa stares down at him, the room far too hot to be natural, and carefully reaches down to pluck the mistletoe from the ground where it'd fallen and shoves it between the couch's cushions to hide it.


	3. araizu: mistletoe

In the end, everything comes down to this or that being Leo's fault. Okay, Izumi amends: this time isn't  _just_  his fault. No, Arashi shares it, having been the one to get the bright idea to decorate all of Yumenosaki to have a chance to kiss his darling Kunugi-sensei. Leo  _had_  been the one who had spontaneously ordered several boxes of mistletoe, though, tapping his foot against it with a grin.  
  
"It'll be fun! We're already decorating Sena House for the holidays anyway, and no holiday decoration's complete without everyone's favorite sprig!"  
  
...Or something like that. Izumi hadn't been listening too hard, focusing more on the fact Arashi had been getting  _that look_  on his face before clapping his hands and smiling in agreement with their king. Things like that only ever spelled trouble, and wouldn't you know it: he was absolutely right, as usual. His day (his  _week_ ) has been spent either volunteering for day duty so he can leave last or making sure he's the first one out the damn door in the first place, just to avoid getting caught under the damn mistletoe that's insistently put back on the classroom up every time someone (Keito, probably) takes it down. It's the same for every doorway, every junction, everywhere there could be mistletoe and  _then some._  
  
It's annoying as hell.  
  
For all his careful planning and attention, though, he can't stop himself from getting cornered at least once. It isn't even fair (he has to go to the studio, because they're having a meeting), and Arashi's just taking advantage of it to try and get him to be less of a Grinch about the whole affair.  
  
(His words, not Izumi's.)  
  
Izumi scowls, of course, and Arashi pouts at him, arms crossed over his chest. "Come on, Izumi-chan! One kiss won't kill you."  
  
"You don't even want to kiss me," he snaps back, and Arashi tilts his head for a moment before he nods in agreement. Izumi rolls his eyes and gives a little wave. "Then what's the point, Naru-kun? Just move and let's forget about this."  
  
"You're bringing down the mood, that's why.  _Really,_  how horrible can you get...? Even Tsukasa-chan's having fun with it."  
  
More like he just gave in after being cornered too many times. Izumi gives him a look and starts to shove past him, but Arashi's stronger than him—a fact he laments, yet always uses to his advantage anyway. Arashi also has the upper-hand when it comes to knowing exactly what to say to get under his skin, and today's is: "If you don't let me do it, Ousama'll do it instead. He's been getting a little antsy, Izumi-chan."  
  
His heart squeezes and bounces all at the same time, and he steps back just enough to grab Arashi by the collar and jerk him forward; the kiss is more teeth than lip, even with Arashi's attempt to smooth it out, and Izumi complies to something softer just to please him for a moment before he pulls away and wipes it off on the back of his hand. Arashi frowns at him, touching his lips gently, and huffs.  
  
"You're such a brute!"  
  
"You got your kiss, Naru-kun." He jerks his head at the door. "Get in before I give you something to actually cry about."  
  
Arashi pouts, but steps back inside and gives him enough room to get in and away from that damn mistletoe as soon as he can.


	4. ritsumao: mistletoe

Just like every morning, Mao heads to the Sakuma household; he greets whoever gets the door (Rei today, looking more awake than usual) and heads up to Ritsu's room, knocking twice and waiting at least a minute before he peeks in.  
  
Today, he barely has to knock before the door opens, and Ritsu peers out at him. Mao stares, fist raised, and he lets drop with a soft 'huh'.  
  
"Didn't need me to get you up today, Ritsu?"  
  
"Mmmm, you woke me up by coming up the stairs too noisily... Try to be more quiet next time, okay...?"  
  
He shakes his head, nudging the door open a little more with his foot, and leans against the doorway. "I always come by in the first place to wake you up, you know, so it's actually pretty..." He trails off, head tilted up, and he catches a hint of mischievous victory in Ritsu's sleepy smile when he looks back down. Mao sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and gives the mistletoe a little nod. "...Did you get up early to put that up?"  
  
"Anija's been putting them up everywhere," Ritsu replies, but he doesn't sound as irritated as he usually does when talking about his older brother—it's nice to see they're getting on better, he thinks, and he gives a quick nod. Ritsu smiles, pleased to see he evidently understands the state of things, and steps forward to slide his arms around his neck. It's mostly to hang most of his weight there, and Mao can feel it, so he adjusts for balance with an arm around his waist. He feels lips trail against the nape of his neck and he shivers before he can suppress it, closing his eyes with a long sigh when Ritsu laughs.  
  
"Maakun," he whispers after an extended moment, eyelashes fluttering against his skin. "Do you know what you do under a mistletoe?"  
  
"You kiss, right?" He gets where Ritsu's going with it, and he doesn't know if he's for or against it. His heart rate picks up anyway, especially when an exceptionally cold nose presses against his pulse point, and Mao thinks it has to be because there's a pair of sharp fangs too close to some very sensitive skin. Or maybe it's because Ritsu wouldn't bring it up if there wasn't a reason to. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to his temple, free hand coming up to ruffle his hair. "There, mission accomplished. Need help getting dressed?"  
  
Ritsu makes a noise that's somewhere between a humph and a whine, and Mao takes that as a yes; he steps forward, forcing him back until they're both in the room, and he gently kicks the door shut with his foot. Like always, it takes sometime to detach Ritsu from him, but this time seems easier.  
  
Maybe it's just his imagination, though. And maybe it's his imagination that getting Ritsu out of his pajamas and into his uniform is harder than usual, except Ritsu's definitely jerking his limbs a little more than usual and being far stiffer otherwise, and Mao holds up his shirt after the third attempt to get it on him. Ritsu peers up at him from beneath it, eyes lidded, and he stares for a moment before he collapses onto the bed beside him and sighs.  
  
"What's wrong, Ritchan?"  
  
Ritsu huffs slightly, turning away, and Mao turns his head just enough to see the glow of the sun on his skin. "Maakun's damning me to a life of poverty, poor health, and misfortune."  
  
"Am I, now." He hadn't realized, though now that he thinks about it, there was a superstition or something like that about mistletoe—but he also knows neither of them really believe in things like that. Not normally, and Mao twiddles his thumbs before it clicks and he exhales softly. Childhood friends are such troublesome brats... but he wouldn't have it any other way, in the end, and he turns towards Ritsu and taps his shoulder. "Sorry. You need to kiss me too then, right?"  
  
Ritsu peeks over his shoulder, blinking slowly, then turns around to face him with a short nod. Mao offers him a smile and a 'come on' motion with his hand, and Ritsu shuffles closer.  
  
It's not where he expects—he thinks it'll be on his neck or something, since Ritsu's pretty damn fond of it, but no. Ritsu kisses him on the mouth properly, the only change coming a few moments later with his bottom lip being sucked gently, and Mao slowly props himself up on his forearm to lean over him. It's short though, Ritsu letting go of his lip with a soft (and embarrassing)  _pop_ , and Mao licks his lips before he reaches behind him and holds up his shirt.  
  
"Let's get finished before we're late."  
  
His company yawns but sits up to comply, arms outstretched and eyes closed, and Mao shakes his head as he resumes his work.


	5. kasaleo: mornings

Tsukasa Suou is not a morning person. Not even after getting involved (!), moving in (!!), or getting engaged (!!!) to Leo has this fact of life changed. He'll get up and pull himself to wakefulness, and he'll make himself presentable enough that he looks like one, but if he has the option to sleep in, he likes to.  
  
With Leo around, he never gets to. If it's not being kicked in the middle of the night, or accidentally stepped on instead of over, or smothered in kisses and touches because  _someone_  woke up this side of turned on—then it's by the crooning of some song or another as he busies himself about the house, flitting from room to room. It's by shouts of inspiration, and before Tsukasa started forcing him to write in bed instead of at his deck, it was cries of pain from falling out of a chair. Today, though, today it's only singing, and Tsukasa blearily opens his eyes and darts his gaze to the alarm clock. Hello Kitty cheerfully waves and greets him with  _6:50_  on the clock she's sitting on, and he closes his eyes again. As long as he doesn't move, Leo won't bother him.  
  
As long as he doesn't move, he can listen to the voice he fell in love with.  
  
It's been a while since Leo did any proper idol work—Tsukasa had, in fact, groused at him over more or less retiring from it, but he'd been satiated by the assurance that Leo would still compose songs for him and whoever else he ended up continuing on with—but his singing is as beautiful as ever. It soars over notes and trembles in the air, often simply wordless noise given his inability to write anything but scores. It's probably the way he minds being woken up the least, even if being pampered is nice, too.  
  
He sadly makes the mistake of turning over in bed to stretch an aching arm the same moment Leo pokes his head into their room. They both pause, and Tsukasa shuts his eyes; Leo laughs and dives into bed with him, landing squarely (painfully) on his stomach, and Tsukasa wheezes.  
  
"Leo—"  
  
"Gooood morning, Suo! I love you!"  
  
They're still carelessly said, but Tsukasa knows he means it—his cheeks warm considerably and he sighs, pressing his face into the crown of his head. "Yes, good morning. I would love you more if you allowed me to simply sleep in for somewhere around ten or fifteen more minutes, however..."  
  
"And when I wake you up then, you'll ask for the same thing." Leo nuzzles his collarbone with a content sigh, then looks up at him. "Suo's so hard to please...!"  
  
"I'm not  _that_  hard to please," he replies, fully aware he sort of is, and he blows a raspberry in Leo's face when the latter just stares at him. Leo laughs again, turning his head away, and gives him another squeeze before he drags him out of bed and to standing; they sway together beside the mattress, Leo's lips attached to the nape of his neck lazily, and Tsukasa loosely wraps his arms around him with a smile.


	6. ritsumao: changes

Next year comes, and Mao goes from “his Maakun” to “everyone’s Maakun.”

 _Though,_ he thinks, _that’s not really any different than usual, either._

Busybody. Ritsu huffs softly, stretching out against the table and knocking aside a precarious stack of cards. Tori gasps loudly, _offendedly_ , as his castle crumbles. On the other side of the room, Mao doesn’t look up from his work, and Ritsu feels a flicker of irritation start to spark before he smothers it by turning his attention to the Very Angry second-year beside him.

“–and I don’t care if you’re this President’s childhood friend, I’ll definitely have your head for this!” Ah, he was saying something bothersome… Ritsu hums in reply, though that only incites Tori’s anger further, and the nearby Yuzuru’s forced to come over from taking care of business to calm him down.

When he looks over, Mao’s still lost in work, no matter how loud this side of the room gets. Brow furrowed, chewing on his bottom lip as he marks off this or that, shuffling papers to and fro. Sometimes, he wonders if Mao just does everything–if he’s President and Vice-President and Treasurer and whatever else all in one person. It sounds like something he’d grumble about but take on anyway, because that’s just how he is. A show-off, a people-pleaser, a person who loves having something (anything) to do to occupy his time. Ritsu’s given up on understanding the intricate whys of that, because he can’t imagine ever being someone like that, and Tori squawks something about not being done with him when he gets up and travels across the room.

He drapes himself over Mao, delighting in the way his pencil stalls for a moment before it resumes its marking up, and he sighs loudly in his ear.

“Maakun, can’t you get that guy to shut up…? It’s annoying.”

“You’re the one who’s annoying! You’re not even part of the Student Council, why are you here!”

“Mmm, I don’t remember Yuzuru-kun being part of the Student Council either… Do you, Maakun?”

Mao presses his hand against his forehead, eyes closing. Ritsu grins a little.

“It’s… complicated,” he finally replies, then finally pulls his gaze away from the desk in front of him; Ritsu isn’t sure if he’s answering him or Tori. “Himemiya, could you please get along with this guy…? I know it’s a liiittle hard, but I’d really appreciate it. Ritsu, I’d like it if you could behave yourself while you’re here too, so…”

“I’m not hard to get along with,” Ritsu says, the same time Tori mentions something about not wanting to get along with someone weird, and he gives a little jump when Ritsu gives him his best evil eye.

He laughs. Mao presses his face into both hands, pencil still tight between two of his fingers, and he drops his head lower to whisper in his ear. “Maakun, I’m not, am I?”

“Not what,” comes the mumble, and Ritsu tuts softly. Tori huffs loudly across the way and slaps the table, scattering cards everywhere. Yuzuru sighs, the sound tinged with a cold irritation rather than exasperation. Mao rubs his temples and turns his head a little, just enough that Ritsu can see him watching from the corner of his eye. “Hard to get along with? A little. Weird? Also a little.”

“Maakun’s mean.”

“ _Maakun’s_ tired.”

“Then maybe Maakun should take a _break_.”

Mao stares at him, and he stares back; it’s a long while before Mao sighs and sits back in his chair, Ritsu moving with him, and he clears his throat to get the rest of the council’s attention. “Fifteen minutes,” he announces, and Tori lights up and bolts out the door without a second thought, his hand already going to his pocket. Yuzuru gives them a small bow at least before he follows his master, door shutting solidly behind him, and then?

Then it’s just him and Mao.

Ritsu blinks slowly before he nuzzles Mao’s neck, smirking at the off-guard noise he makes. “Want me to give you a massage, Maakun? You look tense.”

“You know how do to that?” He asks, but he lets Ritsu take his uniform jacket off as an answer instead of demanding a more vocal one. Off comes his other jacket too, tossed carelessly aside, and Ritsu traces the shell of his ear with his fingertips (he delights in the shudder the other gives) before he lets his hands settle on his shoulders and begins working out the knots that seem to have a constant presence in Mao’s life. It’s hard (they’re hard) and the quiet is punctuated by three things:

The gentle ticking of the clock, the winces of Mao, and spring’s muted bustle just outside of the window behind them.

He wonders for a moment how many of these are caused by him, and how many of these are caused by other people; in the end they’re all Mao’s fault, for always taking on anything and everything, so the exact causes aren’t really important. Shifting the blame isn’t important, and he pushes Mao forward a little to get a better grip. Doing things like this, unexpectedly and without warning, always gives him the nicest sounds–the surprised hitches of breath, the relaxed sigh when he finally manages to loosen up some tension, the muffled moan when apparently he goes a little too far… Ritsu pauses, aware that Mao’s aware that he’s aware that they’ve both heard the same thing, and there’s a tension in the air he thinks about leaving be.

He doesn’t, though, and he chuckles quietly as he repeats the gentle motion in the corner of his neck. “So Maakun’s got a thing for having people’s hands on him, huh~?”

“It’s not–” he sounds heady, and Ritsu’s stomach flutters. His hands do too, onto the back of the chair instead, and with them off of him Mao seems to remember how to breath properly. (It’s attractive. He realizes the burning in his skin is because he wants to cause more of that, more of the redness surfacing as Mao looks back at him.) “It’s not like that… It just felt really good right then. I guess I must be more worked over than I thought, huh~?”

“You always are,” Ritsu replies softly, leaning down, and catching Mao’s _Ritchan_ between his lips almost makes up for not being able to see the look on his face. It’s short, only a few seconds long, not even long enough to last a heartbeat and a half–but it feels like far longer, even when he draws away a little more quickly than he thinks he did and slaps his hands back onto Mao’s shoulders. The other jumps with a soft swear, and Ritsu bounces his gaze between the door and the room’s clock as he returns to massaging him. In time with the twist of his wrists and push of his palms, the charged air between them lessens, and the door banging open with Tori right behind it ends it completely.

Well, almost completely.

His hands are still warm when Mao wakes him up a few hours later, sun disappearing over the horizon. At least Knights hadn’t had practice; there are some messages from Tsukasa and Arashi asking if he’d want to come with them to the shopping mall or something, but those were from even before he decided to lurk around the student council room. He waves off the offered hand, pulling himself up with a small yawn, and stretches until he feels his bones pop and crack, muscles losing their tightness and aching. The walk home is filled with quiet chatter that doesn’t feel entirely usual, like something’s changed because of the afternoon’s events, and Ritsu’s heart feels like it’s pounding in the palm of his hands.

Still warm. Still tingling. Still catching Mao looking at him from the corner of his eye.

The fifth time it happens, he turns to him and grins, sure he looks more confident than he feels. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly full of moths or bats or butterflies or whatever it is, but he isn’t going to worry over it right now. Not when he can chase it off by teasing the one of the easiest people he knows, second only to Tsukasa.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“Not really,” Mao replies, far more vaguely than he likes, and Ritsu tilts his head a little. Mao hums softly, looking away–first to the right, then up at the darkened sky. “I was just thinking that you’ve changed a lot, haven’t you, Ritsu?”

“I’m the same as ever.” He watches Mao’s thoughtful look duck in and out of existence as they pass beneath street lights. “Maakun’s the one who’s changed, right?”

“No, you’re definitely…” He trails off, then shakes his head with a sigh. “No, maybe you’re right… Or maybe we’re both right. But,” he glances over, and Ritsu thinks he sees apprehension shadowed in his eyes, “us being friends won’t change, right?”

It feels like decisive moment, like in those manga Mao’s always reading (like _he_ ends up reading)–something that’s not so easily put to rest by a yes or a no. He rubs the back of his neck lazily and closes his eyes; this is already more trouble than it’s worth, but that feels more like a scripted response than what he really feels. (It’s worth the trouble, maybe.)

“Not even if Maakun wanted us to stop being friends,” Ritsu finally replies, then he grins at Mao’s slightly exasperated look. “You’re mine, you know? I’m not gonna let you go that easily.”

Mao sighs, bumping their shoulders together–he seems happy at least; he sounds it, too: “You’re a seriously clingy guy, you know.”

He doesn’t say anything back to that, studying the way Mao relaxes and seems to bounce a little on his feet in comparison to the own tightening of his heart and dragging of his steps. The rest of the way goes slower than it actually is, conversation lulling here and there before one of them starts it back up again with something new. The Isara household is closer, and Ritsu slides his hands into his pockets as Mao gives him a cheerful wave and heads up the path. He pauses though, staring for so long that Ritsu thinks about teasing him about working so hard he’s forgotten how doors work, then turns halfway and asks him if he’d like to stay over tonight.

Maybe Mao’s the vampire between them, with compulsion in his veins, because Ritsu can’t find it him to think of saying no.

It isn’t their first sleepover, and he’s sure it won’t be their last. They have a late dinner of warmed up leftovers, with Mao’s little sister coming down after a bit to check on them before she returns to her room. She’s still a little cold and distant, and he thinks he knows the feeling–but Mao’s better than his own brother, so things’ll be okay. It doesn’t stop him from teasing Mao about their relationship being estranged though, laughing quietly at the rebuttals, and eventually they end up upstairs.

Separate rooms, for the moment. Ritsu lays on the bed with a pair of folded pajamas on his chest, waiting for Mao to get out of the bath so he can take one, and tries to piece together when they got too old to take them together. If they’re ever going to get too old to share a bed–though now that he thinks after it, it’s been a while since the last time they did that, anyway. He closes his eyes and feels curiosity itching to get out, chest full to bursting with it, and hums sleepily when some time later warmth from the bath hangs over him and draws him out of bed. He likes taking baths last, relishing the opportunity to soak in the heated water before he inevitably has to leave, but tonight’s thoughts swim closer and closer to the huskiness of Mao’s voice earlier and how he hadn’t pulled away or said anything about Ritsu kissing him. He watches steam curl in the air and thinks about how warm Mao’s bound to be just out of the bath, hair and skin still damp, skin flushed beneath him and his breath hitching again and again and

Ritsu ducks himself under the water and resists the urge to breathe it in.

Mao’s at his desk when he comes back in, mouth moving and foot bouncing to whatever he’s listening to. Ritsu slinks over and leans his full weight against him, pressing their ears together and chuckling when he realizes it’s one of Trickstar’s songs. He tugs the earbud out, nuzzling Mao’s wet hair. “How self-centered, listening to your own singing…~ Why don’t you listen to something by Knights instead?”

“This is for self-improvement, not leisure,” Mao shoots back, but there’s no real heat or meaning to it–they both know better, and Ritsu eyes the nape of his neck with some consideration when he draws back. As soon as Mao puts his earbud back in, Ritsu leans down and brushes his lips against it, and his stomach flutters again at the noise it draws out. Embarrassed and surprised, a little annoyed… He grins when Mao looks back at him with a frown, and raises his hands peacefully.

“Maakun wanted me over for a sleepover, so you should be paying attention me and only me, right?”

“Let me just finish this and I will, okay?” He sighs, reaching up, and Ritsu is two parts annoyed, one part pleased, at the affectionate head patting he gets. “Be a good boy and wait for me.”

It’s going to take forever for him to finish whatever it is he’s doing–because he’ll just find some other part to mess with, and then get wrapped up in that, or he’ll get stuck on working and reworking whatever–so Ritsu slides his hands lower and pulls him out of the chair with a huff. It doesn’t go smoothly–the chair gets caught between them and clatters noisily to the ground when he stumbles backwards and knocks into the bed, Mao heavy on top of him and his ankles aching from where they’ve connected with the bed frame in the process–but it goes. They’re quiet in the aftermath of frustrated shouting and furniture tipping, breaths held for a scolding, until the minutes pass with nothing to show for it. Ritsu laughs softly, squeezing Mao’s middle tight, and loosens his arms just enough for him to turn around in them.

“You’re as bad as me when it comes to staying up,” he says before Mao can scold him, and the latter’s mouth shuts instantly. Ritsu grins, pulling a hand away just to use it to prop himself up. “That makes you nocturnal too, right…? But you’re such an early bird…~ Do you ever sleep?”

“Not with you around.”

Ritsu pouts at him until he stops frowning, the irritation melting off his face with a laugh, and Mao presses their foreheads together. His skin is damp and warm, and the thoughts from the bath rise up without being asked; Ritsu raises a hand and cups his cheek and before he knows it, he’s kissing Mao again. It’s longer this time, and Mao’s hands don’t seem to know what to do with themselves–they can’t settle, sliding up his chest then around the back of his neck, alternating between that and twisting his fingers in his hair. It’s irritating, even if it’s Mao, and Ritsu finally grabs one of them with his free hand when it comes back down.

When Mao pulls away, (when Ritsu lets him pull away,) he entwines their fingers and breathes, “Ritchan.”

“Don’t talk,” he says immediately, hand going from his cheek and running through his clipless hair instead. “You’ll ruin the moment if you do. Maakun always says such stupid things, I’m afraid he’ll kill whatever mood we’ve got going right in its cradle.”

Mao, of course, ignores him. “Do you… like me?”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Stupid things, stupid questions. Mao looks at him expectantly, and Ritsu drops his hands so he can lean back on them again. “What do you think?”

“What do I… Ritsu, I’m asking you?”

He purses his lips and tilts his head back, watching the wall behind him. Stupid, stupid– “Maaaaaaaakun. We’re childhood friends, so our hearts are connected like no one else’s, right? So you should be able to tell that kind of thing.”

“It’s because I can’t tell that I’m asking though,” Mao replies, voice soft, and he moves closer, until he’s leaning over him; Ritsu tilts his head forward a little, staring at him, and sighs before he leans forward a little more and kisses him again. Mao tenses, gripping the sheets beneath him before he kisses back. They thread them together slowly, like this is something new (it is) that needs exploring (it does), and when his back hits the bed he slides his freed hands beneath Mao’s loose shirt. A moan shudders against his lips and his stomach flips again, and he starts forward just as Mao shoves him back against the mattress.

It’s quiet, other than their attempt to catch their breaths, and Mao’s the first to speak: “…You like me. Romantically.”

“You take the romance out of it,” he retorts immediately, tracing circles with his nails on the small of his back; he sticks his tongue out when Mao tells him to be serious, then uses it to wet his lips when he repeats his nickname softer and sighs. “…I always say Maakun’s mine, right? So duh. _You’re_ the one who didn’t get it until now.”

“Why do I feel like that’s not entirely the truth…” Mao shakes his head, then drops onto him with a soft _oomph_ ; Ritsu winces and grumbles a halfhearted complaint, and tries not to smile when he feels lips ghosting his neck uncertainly, warm breath accompanying it. “…It’s not like I didn’t get it,” he continues after a moment, voice muffled. “I just kinda wanted to hear you say it, you know?”

Ritsu sniffs like he doesn’t believe him (because he doesn’t), and he huffs when Mao presses his nose into the joint of his jaw and neck. “I’m serious, Ritchan. You’re reaaally not subtle, and that made me happy.”

“If you wanted me to say it, you should’ve just said so.”

“I just did, and you avoided answering.”

There’s a long pause between them, before Ritsu sighs and closes his eyes without argument. Mao smiles against his throat.

It isn’t like the incident changes anything though; they wake up in a tangle of arms and legs, too warm to move but aware there’s things to be done that day, and they squabble over clothing because apparently just going to school in what he had before isn’t right (even if it’s just his uniform, he should wear a fresh one, you know?), and in the end Mao carries him the extra distance to his house so he can get changed. Rei is there, of course–he can’t avoid him, not after not coming home _or_ telling him where he was, and Ritsu suffers the little scolding he gets in place of their parents’ words.

The whine he gets when he slams the door on Rei’s face upstairs so he can change is _incredibly_ satisfying, though.


	7. subanatsu: puzzle

People think Natsume's hard to read—and maybe he is, sometimes, but Subaru's never faulted him for it. Fortunetellers (even one taking breaks from the mystical spotlight)  _should_  have some level of mystery to them. But he's a lot easier to get a read on than people think, actually, and he prides himself in being able to tell his moods as they shift between still and choppy waters.  
  
Tonight, it's just the two of them and Subaru's tiny room, with a tv that dwarfs pretty much everything. Getting him to agree to a sleepover was as much of an ordeal as he thought it'd be, but now Natsume's dressed in dark, white-striped pajamas beside him, toes curling and uncurling as he leans on his fist, watching the movie with the look of a seriously skeptical critic. Subaru, tank top and shorts, watches him instead, grinning into his hand when Natsume finally looks over and quirks an eyebrow at him.  
  
It's cute. Natsume's cute.  
  
"You're the one who wanted to watch this moVIE," Natsume says after a moment, voice inflecting oddly at the end in its characteristic way. Subaru nods, giving the screen a quick glance before he returns his attention to his company, and Natsume tilts his head more against his knuckles and presses his lips together before he continues: "If you wanted to watch me inSTEAD, we could have put on one of Switch's LIVES."  
  
Subaru shakes his head—this is  _way better_ —and grins against Natsume's hand when it comes over his mouth and his inflection drops, voice turning a little deeper, a little harder:  
  
 _"If you speak, I will make you regret ever doing so."_  
  
He tugs the hand off and scoots closer, slumping against him with a sigh. "This is good, Natsume! I can see you up close like this, so I definitely prefer it~"  
  
"Didn't I say not to spEAK," comes the grumbled reply, Natsume's cheek warm against his. Subaru thinks it's because of their proximity—he's been told he's really warm in body temperature, mostly to counteract Hokuto's perpetual coldness—and not because of anything else, and he's right because he doesn't see any red on his face when he glances out of the corner of his eye. Neither of them end up focusing on the movie, because he's too wound up waiting for revenge, and Natsume's preoccupied with pretending he's watching the movie while he traces indecipherable plans on the inside of his thigh.  
  
It's lights out before anything actually happens, with Subaru in his bed and Natsume in a futon on the floor beside it (his insistence); he's on the edge of falling asleep when he feels the bed dip, and when he opens his eyes, Natsume's leaning over him. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the darkness, and shivers when the other leans closer and presses their mouths together. He's a warm, heavy weight on his middle when he settles down, threading kisses like breathing air, and—Subaru doesn't mind, because he's finding he likes doing this, likes this side of Natsume that cards his hands through his hair gently while (more distressingly) giving a sudden roll of his hips; Subaru's breath sucks into his lungs and comes out in whimpers and a stuttered moan, fingers tightening on his waist, and—  
  
Natsume isn't hard to read, not really, not if you listen to how he says things instead of what he says, except he can absolutely say he has no idea what brought this on or why, because aside from not being that hard to read (but also an enigma, one he's always wanting to learn more about), Natsume is  _incredibly_  anti-touch—and now there's too much touching, synapses sparking with every roll that bring their hips together and every shuddering breath that comes between their kisses, and he's on fire, he's seeing stars, he thinks there's really magic in the boy sitting on him—  
  
until there isn't one, just the comparatively chill air of his room, and his chest aches as he tries to catch air like he used to try to catch constellations. The bed's still dipping to one side thanks to a certain someone's weight, and he turns to frown at Natsume; he gets a smile in reply and a soft, delicate hand on his cheek, thumb pressing into the side of his mouth after a moment.  
  
"Consider that my revenGE, Baru-kun," Natsume murmurs, pulling away before Subaru can grab him and ask that he finish what he started, and he hears him settle into the futon beside him with a contented sigh. Subaru presses his hands to his face and wills away the hardness in his shorts, a small laugh spluttering out when he hears Natsume swears softly on the floor below.


	8. izuleo, onesided: try again

It's with a healthy amount of skepticism (and he assures himself this tight, winding feeling in his chest is that, and not a wistful hopefulness) that Izumi lets Leo back into his life and into his home. It's a decently-sized apartment on the better side of the city, close to his work, and Leo is an unwashed, dirty mess that's apparently been sleeping in the alleyways—but he's Leo, through and through.  
  
He probably doesn't need scolding either, but Izumi washes his hair a little rougher than necessary, knuckles digging into his skull, and does that, anyway. "I thought you were done running," he huffs, watching Leo's hands flinch under the water on the edge of his vision. He tries not to feel too bad, because there's more than just him or Tenshouin hurt this time— there's the rest of their group, too. "Was that a lie, Leo-kun?"  
  
"It isn't like I meant to," Leo replies after a moment, shoulders squaring. "I was following a lead! A glimmer of inspiration! And before I knew it, I was way, way far away! Ahhhhhh, Sena, at least I stayed in Japan this time, you know? At least I called! Can't you give credit where credit's due?"  
  
"And incentivize decency? Nooooooooo way. Besides," Izumi digs his fingers in harder, too angry to feel satisfied at the whine he gets, "you've been back in the city for months, riiight, Leo-kun~? You should've said something."  
  
Leo scowls over his shoulder at him briefly before he turns his face back to the water, and Izumi purses his lips before he softens his touch and massages his scalp instead. It's quiet when he rinses out his hair, combing his fingers through thin orange locks, and then it's too loud for any conversation when he turns the hair dryer on. Leo sighs in contentment though, leaning into his hand, and Izumi tries to convince himself he doesn't find it cute at all.  
  
(Of course he does. He's a sucker, an idiot, an absolute dumbass.  
  
They both are. They always have been, really.)  
  
He leaves Leo to his own devices as he heads to the kitchen to make dinner—he listens to laughter and one-sided conversation signifying phone calls, apologies beginning some of them and then again at the end. He's cradling the phone against his cheek when Izumi comes back around with food, mouth twisted at some reprimanding only he can hear, and he glances up briefly to mouth "Suo" and "thank you" before he glances back down at his feet in his lap again.   
  
Izumi sets their plates down and takes a seat across from him, resting his chin in his hand; Leo's distracted as he eats, somewhat naturally, humming every so often as the scolding slows, and he sighs as he closes his eyes. "Sorry," he whispers into the receiver, sounding far more genuine than he ever had. "I messed up, okay, Suo~? Don't worry, don't worry, I'm gonna be around for a while now! I'm at Sena's place, so come by, okay? We can go out for ice cream or something! Ahh, yeah, I know... Mmm, uh huh... Ah, well, that's sort of better explained in person... Okay, okay."  
  
A beat, before Leo grins a little and Izumi's heart does a funny little belly-flop: "Love you, Suo."  
  
He says things like that so frivolously, he's almost tempted to believe it doesn't mean anything—but it's Leo, so of course it does. He means everything he says, for better or for worse, and Izumi determinedly ignores his urge to autopsy the way his stomach bottoms out. It won't get him anywhere; it never has, trying to sort out feelings and things like that when the people involved are close enough to touch. He hums an acknowledgement when Leo cheers about his food being tasty as ever, and when he curls up on the couch to catch one of Arashi's interviews, he lets Leo curl up with him, his arm around the small of his back, touch heavy on his waist.   
  
Worst of all, maybe, he lets him share his bed; he looks pitiful standing in the doorway, arms around the pillow he'd given him to sleep on the couch with, his hair down and his lips drawn into a tight pout. It dissipates when Izumi lifts his blankets and tugs them around them both after he slips in. Leo buries his coldness wherever he can—feet hooked around his ankles, arms in a hug so his hands can tuck against his sides tightly, his face buried in the crook of his neck, until he resembles something more octopus than human. Izumi waits until he's done, counting heartbeats until he's calmed, and watches the numbers on his clock tick up in the meanwhile.


	9. leokasa: sick days

_It's not babysitting,_ Izumi had replied, irritation loud in his ear. _It's making sure that idiot doesn't go off and get himself more sick._

Tsukasa's fairly certain the two are one and the same, but he still stands outside of the flat, water dripping from the roofs around it into shallow puddles. The city mills loudly behind him, and he swings his overnight bag against his legs until he sighs and makes his way up the stairs, one by one. Arashi would have done it, but he was doing a shoot for his agency; Izumi was in the same boat, hence the call; and Ritsu had mumbled something about being sick himself. Mao had taken over after that, confirming his excuse, and Tsukasa had thanked him and begun packing.

Leo peeks out after five minutes of buzzing and steady knocking. He looks awful—his face is flushed and there are dark bags under his eyes, his hair out of its ponytail and in disarray. Tsukasa stares, then clutches his bag's handle and bows slightly.

“Good afternoon, Leo-san. Sena-san asked me to look after you while he and Narukami-senpai are doing an overnight shoot.”

“Is that so,” Leo mumbles. His gaze skips up and down Tsukasa, and he straightens up without thinking about it, feeling as if he's being sized up. Leo grins a little after a moment and he opens the door a little wider, motioning him in. The flat is just what he expects from a place shared by his graduated senpai: the front room is impeccably clean, aside from a corner he assumes is Leo's due to the several beanbag chairs lined up, a blanket across them, and the spread of papers and pens around it. The kitchenette is also clean, minus dishes left in the sink, and Tsukasa wonders if he'll actually be able to take care of Leo.

He follows him to a room—Izumi's, going by the sign—and Leo tells him to dump his stuff there; if he's taking over for his roommate, he might as well stay in the same room, and Tsukasa hesitantly sets his bag by the bed and whispers an apology and a prayer. Leo's gone by the time he turns around, and he blinks for a few seconds before he goes back to the front room and sighs in relief as Leo thumps onto the bed of beanbags, the blanket fluttering over his shoulders. Tsukasa sits on the couch nearby, glancing at Leo, then clicks on the television and lowers the volume to _just_ audible to give him some peace.

Paying attention is harder than he expects it to be though. He keeps catching himself watching the still form of his companion instead, and he tears his gaze away every time until he finally gives up and turns the television off. Leo stirs at that, turning his head over to stare blearily, and Tsukasa wonders if he woke him up somehow, or if he'd always been awake and was just curious about the state of affairs. He apologizes regardless and offers to make him something to eat, and Leo blinks slowly before he slowly sits up and lets his head roll onto his shoulder.

“Suoooo, you can cook?”

“I'm not able to create the same dishes my family's chefs do, but I've picked up a few things from Narukami-senpai.” Tsukasa smiles and gives him a slight bow, hand laid delicately over his chest. “Please continue to rest, Leo-san. I'll prepare a simple soup for you.”

When he straightens back up, Leo's already flopped back down onto his makeshift bed, watching him with the blanket pulled up to his mouth. Tsukasa's worry increases—he hadn't doubted that he was sick, but to see it is... unsettling, to say the least. He makes his way to the kitchenette, feeling Leo's eyes on him the whole way, and feels nerves spark through his fingers as he opens the fridge.

Leo tells him it isn't bad, then also tells him that he's lucky it's not bad, because Sena'd be really mad if he used his ingredients and made something awful. Tsukasa sighs and continues washing dishes, gaze flicking up to Leo's slow but steady consumption of his soup every so often. He finishes most of it at least, setting it aside on the table with a _fuuuuah_ , and Tsukasa moves to take it.

His wrist is grabbed before he can pull back, and he stares at Leo; the grip is loose enough that if he wanted to, he could just shake him off, but the glint in those green eyes keep him locked in place. He sets the bowl back down and leans against the table instead, tilting his head. “Yes, Leo-san?”

“Forget the dishes and sit with me.”

Tsukasa makes a face, and Leo mimics it right back at him—he sighs and pulls his hand away, skin tingling where Leo's fingers drag against it. “Absolutely not. I'll sit with you once I'm finished.”

“Suooo,” Leo manages to whine and sing at the same time, and Tsukasa returns to his work. Leo pouts at him from the table, but all he can think is: _Good. Leo-san's returning to his usual self._

If he washes the dishes a little quicker than before in order to finish sooner, it's not commented upon, and he feels his face heat up when he settles back on the couch and Leo flops right against him, blanket curled around him like a cocoon. Despite the warmth in his cheeks, Leo is _noticeably_ hotter beneath the side of his face, and Tsukasa wonders if he's going to get sick from cuddling (because that's what this is and as embarrassing as it is to consider it so, he was raised to be frank with his words) with his unit's former leader. The others would be disappointed if he did, not to mention their first-years...

Leo mumbles something against his shoulder and Tsukasa blinks, tilting his head away. “What was that? I'm sorry, Leo-san, I was thinking and didn't hear.”

“I asked how our knights were doing.” Leo shifts beside him, leaning more of his weight on him. “I left them to you because I thought you could handle them, Suooo. Don't tell me you've let them get tarnished!”

“I still think Narukami-senpai or Ritsu-senpai would have been more suited,” Tsukasa replies softly, wincing when an elbow digs into his side, and tilts his head back. “We've been doing well, Leo-san. Actually...”

Leo's quiet as he recounts their recent lives and events, wandering into the type of people their first-years are and how his senpai have been handling things. He trails off after he notices Leo's eyes are closed, the rise of his chest small and slow, and he presses his lips together before he sighs. If he wanted him just to talk so he could fall asleep easier, he _did_ know some bedtimes stories... He starts to move and freezes when Leo groans softly, his arms winding around his waist, and he realizes two things:

One, Leo Tsukinaga is absolutely a cuddler. Two, there's no way to get out of this situation without waking him. He weighs the pros and cons in his mind before he finds a more comfortable position to rest in—it ends up with his side pressed against the arm of the couch and Leo strewn across him, head cradled in the crook of his neck. Tsukasa watches him from the corner of his eye before he clicks the television back on and props his cheek in his hand. There's nothing he can do right now, and it isn't so bad, the risk of contagion aside. It's better for Leo to get rest than it is to disturb him even for a brief moment to get him to lay elsewhere, and it isn't like he has anything else to do, either...

Staying like this is acceptable, and he nods off to the sound of commercials before he knows it.

He wakes up to a heavy pressure on his chest and his upper back aching. When he opens his eyes, he finds Leo's face ten centimeters from his own, and he yelps in surprise. Leo laughs, scooting down a little before he draws back completely. The blanket lays around his waist now, and the coffee table in front of them has some sheet music and pens on it; his hair's in its usual ponytail as well, and Tsukasa supposes he must be feeling a little better then. He sits up, wincing at the pain in his back, and rolls his shoulders as Leo twists back around to his composing and leans forward almost enough to slide off the couch completely, legs crisscrossed beneath him.

The television is still on, but Leo doesn't seem to mind the quiet noise, so Tsukasa leaves it for now; he finds his phone instead to check the time (night already—he slept that long?) and skim through his messages. Arashi and Izumi both get updates on how things are going, then a second message each when Leo tells him to tell them he said hi, once Tsukasa's let him know who he's bothering to text so late. It doesn't stop there, irritatingly enough, and his brows furrow together the longer he has to play messenger for him and Izumi—

he sets his phone face down and folds his hands over it, glancing at Leo with a pout.

“Leo-san, you have your own phone, don't you? Please text Sena-san from that instead of asking me to relay every message between you two.”

“Are you feeling lonely because I'm not giving you enough attention, Suo? Jealous?”

Tsukasa's face warms and he twists around to face him completely, hands balled into fists. “That isn't it, Leo-san—”

Leo laughs in his face, and Tsukasa grabs a pillow to smack his face with. It's childish, but the surprised squawk he gets is incredibly satisfying, and he relishes his victory up until he's pushed back down against the couch, and Leo's fingers are squirming against his sides in an attempt to find a weak point. He can hold onto his composure until they reach his neck, and laughter bubbles out as he tries to wiggle away.

He pauses when he sees Leo's look—it reminds him of Judgment, of the king of knights, serious and trained only on him; he tilts his head up when Leo's hand slides beneath his chin and nudges him to do so, muscles winding tighter and tighter.

“You've gotten even prettier, Suo.” The murmur makes his breath catch, and Leo leans in; Tsukasa can feel his pulse thrumming beneath his hand and knows he can feel it, too. The cat-in-the-cream grin seals it. “Not as pretty as Sena, but prettier.”

“That's not the kind of thing a man wants to hear,” Tsukasa mumbles back, electrically aware of the weight on his stomach and the thighs pressed against his waist. “Please call me _handsome_ or something similar, Leo-san.”

“That too,” he agrees, thoughtless as ever, and he swallows Tsukasa's rebuttals as easily as he does his breath. Their lips are warm pressed together, and Leo doesn't stop him when he lifts his hands up and cups his cheeks, returning it gently.

Until he's reminded of Leo's fever hot against his palms, and he pushes him off with a splutter: “Are you trying to get me sick too!?”

“Yep!” is the too cheerful reply, Leo swinging from side to side, and he squawks when Tsukasa frowns and pulls at his cheeks with a pout. “Ahh—Suo, Su~o, come on! I just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you! After all, if you get sick, I can come over and take care of you like you're doing for me, right? It'll be returning the favor!”

“I'd rather not,” is an understatement, but he says it anyway, and Leo keeps pouting at him until he sighs and gives in, leaning in.

 


	10. 2winkasa: sweets

"My brother?" Yuta repeats, tilting his head. Tsukasa nods, and Yuta thinks about it for a moment before he grins a little and raises a hand. "He's... probably in the kitchens right about now? He said something about making a special treat while it was free."  
  
That's exactly what he was hoping to hear—he tries not to let his excitement show as he gives the younger Aoi twin a nod of thanks and bids him farewell; he keeps his pace smooth and controlled until he rounds the corner of their hall, and then he lets himself go a little faster. A little faster than that, even, when he rationalizes that he's working off the calories he'll be consuming in advance. He pauses outside in the garden terrace to make himself a little more presentable, and then he makes his way into the kitchens. He hears Hinata before he sees him, his warm, energetic singing ebbing to and fro like waves on the beach, and when he steps in, their eyes lock.   
  
Tsukasa feels every word he has turn to ash in his mouth. Hinata seems the same way, the awkward pause going on for longer than necessary, before he twirls his chocolate-covered whisk and points it at Tsukasa.  
  
"You're one of Yuta-kun's friends, ri~ght? Tsukasa-kun?"  
  
He's quick to nod, stepping in further and lacing his hands behind his back. It's only Yuta's brother; it doesn't matter that they haven't spoken before, haven't had reason to until now... and even then, the only reason is a selfish, gluttonous one. As long as he works it off though, as long as he doesn't go overboard...  
  
"I heard from Yuta-kun that you make  _Sweets_  as a hobby?" He smiles when Hinata's face lights up, then cants his head slightly. "I wished to try some..."  
  
"He mi~ght've mentioned he had a friend that liked sweets! Okay, okay, I already made a few different kinds so you can have those~! There's another stool around somewhere, or—you can just grab a chair from outside?" Hinata tilts his head, then sets aside his whisk and hurries over to the fridge. "Whichever, just sit!"  
  
...Yuta hadn't been lying when he said his big brother would be delighted, and Tsukasa finds somewhere to sit while Hinata hums, putting his chocolate and whisk aside so he can set out his creations one by one. They're adorable, tasty-looking things that are absolutely nothing like Ritsu's—his senpai could learn a thing or two about aesthetics and presentation from him, Tsukasa thinks. After all, one eats with their eyes first, but doing so now just makes him more impatient, and he barely restrains himself when Hinata sets down the last one and throws his hand out in a wide gesture.  
  
"Dig in~! Tell me what you think, too!"  
  
The first one is delightful—a rich mix of caramel, cream, and chocolate, with a surprisingly nutty flavor he can't place the origin of. He savors it, letting it roll and melt in his mouth, and almost,  _almost_  wants to stay there, picking chocolate candies off the plate until they're all gone... but he has two others to do, and he gives it a meaningful look.  _I'll be back,_  he thinks, and reaches for a ball of brightly colored candy handwrapped in plastic next. The colors are aqua and pink, curling tightly together—2wink's signature scheme, and he pops it into his mouth without a second thought. Bubblegum and cotton candy explode in his mouth, and it's a little overly sweet; it reminds him of the cheap candy in the shopping district in that way, and he knows Yuta would hate it.  
  
He loves it though, and he watches Hinata pick one from the plate too and unwrap it to join him. "These are my favorite," he says, wiggling it before he tosses it in the air and catches it in his mouth, and Tsukasa can't help but feel a little impressed. Hinata grins at him, and he blinks when the other reaches over and pokes his cheek. "Yuta-kun was right, you let everything show on your face! Haha, that's pretty cute~?"  
  
Tsukasa's face warms and he pulls away, hand covering his mouth politely as he replies, "I do no such thing...!"  
  
Maybe a little; his senpai were always commenting on this or that expression, and Hinata's grin turns absolutely Cheshire. Tsukasa sucks a little harder on his candy, glancing at the final one—red and sparkling, like some sort of gemstone. Crystals adorn strings like pearls, and he lifts one up slowly, watching it shimmer in the light. " _Marvelous,_  Hinata-kun," he murmurs around his shrinking candy.  
  
It's spicy when he finally gets to eat it though—he isn't expecting it, hoping it'd be more strawberry in flavor than anything else, and Hinata laughs at his expression. Tsukasa gives him a sour look in reply, nursing some water to cool his mouth down, and shrinks slowly in his seat.  
  
"I thought Yuta-kun was the one who liked spicy things...?"  
  
Something flits over Hinata's expression briefly—he almost thinks he's just imagined it, really, because there's a look of concentration on his face instead the second he blinks. Hinata ties strings together, tongue poking out between his lips as he works on making the lines of candy into necklaces.  
  
"Well, yeah, he is... so I wanted to make a candy he wouldn't mind eating? Don't tell him though, okay! It's not done yet." He glances up. "So it'll be our little secret, okay?"  
  
A secret... His chest swells and he nods—whatever there might be, it isn't his business, and it'd be impolite to intrude, especially as he doesn't really know Hinata... but a secret is something he can keep. Hinata holds his pinky out over the counter, and Tsukasa stares for a moment before he realizes what he needs to do and links them together tightly with a smile.  
  
Hinata mirrors it back at him a little brighter, then asks his opinion on the other two. Tsukasa gives it thoroughly, only backtracking a few times to repeat the English that always makes its way into his speech; Hinata nods along to it, his leg bouncing noisily against his stool. When he asks what they're for (given he knows the spicy one is for Yuta—which wasn't a bad candy, and it isn't as if he strictly dislikes the heat, he just wasn't expecting it!), Hinata laughs and picks up another chocolate.  
  
"This one's for me! I like warming up with it." They seem a little complex for a warm-up, but Tsukasa nods. Hinata pops it into his mouth, then grabs one of the wrapped candies. "These are to toss out to the crowds during lives! I think if we do that, people'll be like, 'Oh, those two are so sweet!' and vote for us more? And we'd definitely get remembered easier!"  
  
"As if being twins wasn't  _Memorable_  enough?" Tsukasa holds out his hand, and Hinata drops the candy into it without hesitation. "Still, these are quite tasty...~ I believe your plan is a solid one, though idols should win fans over with their actions and not with treats, shouldn't they?"  
  
"Giving candy  _is_  an action!"  
  
That's true, he guesses, even if it isn't what he was talking about, but a knock at the doorway interrupts him before he can say anything; he and Hinata turn at the same time, and he barely catches the other's eyes widening and his hands reaching out to grab the plate of spicy rock candy to hide it immediately. Yuta blinks slowly at them both, then raises a hand in greeting.   
  
"You two are getting along pretty well, huh~?"  
  
"Hinata-kun's very easy to get along with," Tsukasa replies, scooting over a little to help hide his new friend's struggle; it doesn't seem as if Yuta's noticed yet, after all. "And his sweets are simply  _Marvelous_... I wish he and I had met sooner."  
  
"Woah, really!? Me too!! Yuta-kun, I know you want to keep  _someone_  to yourself, but you should let me meet all your friends anyway~."  
  
Yuta's face reddens slightly and he rubs it with a sigh, gaze darting away. "Aniki, don't say it like that...? Besides, you talk to pretty much everyone else anyway? It was surprising to hear you  _hadn't_  talked to Tsukasa-kun yet. He isn't that intimidating."  
  
"I wouldn't say I'm intimidating at all?" Tsukasa's brow furrows when the twins look at him like they're just noticing he's still here—is it really so easy for them to get lost in each other's pace... He had  _just_  spoken after all. "My unit  _is_ strong, but individually-speaking, Sena-senpai is the only one with any level of intimidation...?  _Leader_  is air-headed, Narukami-senpai has a strange way of talking at times but he's very kind, and Ritsu-senpai isn't even active until nightfall."  
  
Hinata hums, apparently unconvinced, and Yuta laughs. "We just mean— you have that serious beauty vibe? Though you lose it around sweets and fortune roulettes—"  
  
"Please do not speak of that embarrassing time, Yuta-kun!"  
  
"No, wait, do! What're friends for if you can't laugh at stuff with them!!"  
  
Tsukasa whines slightly—"I'd rather it not be at my expense, you two!"—and he only sulks  _a little_  when Yuta hops over the counter to his brother's side, recounting their visit to the café with Mitsuru. He busies himself with swiping the chocolates away little by little, unable to keep from snickering when Hinata reaches for one idly and grasps nothing but air.


	11. subanatsu: a kiss under the stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [recommended listening](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rW5_jVTZPZ0)

**Baru-kun**

    Natsume!　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　  
  Natsume!!!!!!　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　  
    Natsume Naatsume Natsuume　　　　　　　　  
  Naaaa　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　  
 Tsu　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　  
Me　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　What.

Let’s go camping this weekend!　　　　　　  
Just the two of us. It'll be fun! ★　　　　　　

Natsume thinks about it, and he thinks about it some more, and he stops Subaru at their classroom door to ask where they're going and what he needs to bring.

* * *

 

"It probably won't be that crowded since it's cold," he hears beside him, another line in an endless string of conversation, and he hums softly in reply, just as he's done for the past hour of their train ride. Subaru's feet swing next to his firmly planted ones, his reflection bright-eyed and cheerful as he keeps it up, and Natsume switches between watching the scenery and watching him in the window. He doesn't notice when the conversation lags or when Subaru starts watching him too, not until he catches his eye in the reflective surface, and warmth unfurls in his chest at the soft look Subaru's wearing.

Natsume's face twists into a disgusted grimace in front of him and he covers it with his hand, a sigh loosing itself from his lips.

"I was listenING. Are you certain what we've packed will be enoUGH?"

"This is about as much as Shinonon and I took the last time we came, so yeah! That _was_ in the summer though," Subaru replies without missing a beat, leaning back. Natsume slowly adjusts his position so he can turn and press his back against the window without attracting too much attention, legs drawing up onto the seat and tucking against his chest tightly. "We're only staying for a night too, so it's probably okay?"

"I still don't see why anyone would go through all of this trouble for one NIGHT." He hardly understands why anyone would go through all of this trouble in general. He hardly understands why _he_ is, when they both know being outdoors isn't his favorite thing, and neither is walking, and neither is spending time with people. Subaru hums thoughtfully, head tilted, before he grins at Natsume again.

"Because it's worth it," he answers.

Natsume hopes it is.

They arrive at the station another mind-numbing hour later, and he sneaks a few looks around as Subaru consults his phone for the map and makes little thoughtful noises while he does so, because he's never been able to keep quiet. Natsume gives a little jerk when his hand's taken, his company's unapologetic smile the first thing he sees when he turns, and it's only because it's easier to stick together that he allows their hands to stay linked as they pull their luggage through the crowd until it thins. Past that, he lets him hold it because it's an easy way to keep his hand warm, and he pushes aside the disappointing curling in his stomach when they rent a car and drive the rest of the way up. Subaru plays with his fingers in his lap and talks with their driver, ever spirited, and Natsume watches the scenery turn from city to city limits to limitless horizon and a gradually climbing altitude.

(He doesn't think he's ever been so high, and Subaru just smiles when he says so.)

_Mount Dodaira,_ the sign proudly proclaims as they go past, and he wonders where Subaru gets the energy to hop out of the car and rush to the shoulder of the road when they stop by the mountain's summit. By the time he's pulled their luggage out, ruing ever coming here, Subaru's back over and wrapping his arms around his middle, their cheeks squishing together.

"It's great, Natsume! You've gotta come see! Come on!"

If he refuses, there'll be a scene, so Natsume counts to ten and slowly detaches Subaru from him, brushes off the imaginary dust and the very real warmth after as he nods. He expects the sight to be only extraordinary due to their elevation, and he's right; the beginnings of Tokyo spread out before them, and Subaru's sigh is happy and full of awe beside him. He pretends he can see where his mother sometimes works among the numerous buildings, wonders if she's doing well or if she's going to be taking another break when things warm up again, and turns his cheek just enough to catch his company's eyes.

Subaru grins wide and bright, prettier than any view.

Natsume beats the thought back into its grave with an imaginary shovel.

He lets him take care of all the paperwork and permissions, preferring to inspect people's photographs on the wall of their trip and of the stars from the observatory at the summit; the majority of them are in summer, as expected, and he traces them as he steps along the wall. He pauses at one taken at night, Tokyo on the horizon lit up as brilliantly as the picture of the Milky Way beside it. It's dream-like, almost perfect mirrors of each other, and he smiles when he thinks about how excited Sora would be over such a sight.

("You should do that more," Subaru says, brows furrowed in concentration as he sets up their tent in dimming light. Natsume frowns over his book and tilts his head, and Subaru glances back at him. "Smile. You look cute."

He doesn't feel too bad for snickering when the tent's pole whips back into Subaru's face afterwards.)

The campgrounds themselves are... quiet. Desolate. He surveys them and follows Subaru when the other starts to move, and by the time they find a good place to stop, the sun is just beginning to set. Natsume stares at it, arms wrapped around himself in an effort to keep warm, and allows the small, private thought that Subaru looks good, framed by rays of light, to stay. He sits down the first chance he gets, blanket pulled around him tight and a book in his hands, and he pretends to read until it gets too dark to. Pretends to, because Subaru is _distracting_ , being the only thing out here aside from him. Distracting, being the only thing making noise and moving, shirt riding up whenever he stretches up to pull poles this way and that, because Subaru is an idiot who won't zip up his jacket no matter how many times Natsume points out that's what's making him cold.

Natsume licks his lips to wet them and makes a face when Subaru starts a fire at his feet.

He's going to smell like smoke. He's assured, again, that it's going to be worth it, and he eyes the pot set on the fire in short order with skepticism. Subaru hums a song that's vaguely familiar—one of Ra*bits', maybe—as he adds oil, spices, herbs... Natsume closes his eyes, content to listen to the crackle of the fire and Subaru's voice when it breaches the quiet, unable to stay locked behind his lips. Dinner is done in a longer time than he anticipates it to be, though that only means he's genuinely hungry when he's handed a bowl of piping hot curry. He mixes it with the rice beneath it and blows on it gently, pausing just long enough to watch the steam curl in the air before he takes a bite.

It's unexpectedly good, and Subaru laughs at the sound he makes.

"I didn't think you could COOK," he mumbles around his spoon, repeating his statement when Subaru cocks his head to the side inquisitively. "Is that something you had to pick UP?"

_After your father left you with nothing,_ his tone implies, and he watches discomfort flicker over his expression in the firelight before it's covered by shadow, Subaru turning away to grab a light blanket of his own. Natsume doesn't expect an answer, and he returns to eating—

so he burns his tongue, naturally, when Subaru replies: "Yeah, kind of. I wanted to help Mom anyway."

He breathes in the cold air quickly to cool his mouth, ignoring the concerned look he's thrown, and sips water until he can think of a reply to a conversation that's uneasily passed by the time he has one. Subaru's jumped subjects as the sky fills with stars, the dark shadow of his hand guiding them through constellations, and Natsume puts his cold curry to the side. He doesn't do much when Subaru scoots over and presses against him, blanket loose around his shoulders; in fact, the only thing he does is tug his own free and lay it across their legs, and tug Subaru's around his shoulder to share.

It traps the warmth between them, and Natsume pretends not to notice the way Subaru's fingers alight on his forearm, gently sliding down to slip between his.

The moon is high, high above them before they crawl into the tent; it's cramped with two teenage boys, and at least one of them _definitely_ seems like the type to wiggle around—he hopes the sleeping bags they have will defend against that and nearly settles to sleep before Subaru shoots up with a yelp.

Natsume peeks open an eye, his heart thundering against his chest. "WhAT."

"Everything's really pretty from up here at night!" Subaru wiggles out of his sleeping bag and grabs his jacket; Natsume thinks about telling him he's put it on inside-out, but refrains. "That's the whole reason I wanted to bring you! Come on, come onnn!"

"I thought you broUGHT me because you had no one else who wanted to go in winTER," he replies. Evidently, he's not getting out of his bag quick enough, because Subaru digs his hands in and pulls him out himself. Honestly, he wasn't even considering getting up, and he jerks away with a thin frown—not that Subaru notices (or that he pretends not to notice), and after some minor grumbling and dressing they make their way out of the tent and up the trail that leads to the summit proper. It's ten minutes too long in the increasingly colder air, but the view—

is the same as the pictures, the lights of Tokyo mimicking the Milky Way, and his eyes widen as they stand against the railing. Slowly he pulls his hands from his pockets, gloved fingers gripping the metal in front of him as he leans forward, and he doesn't sound half as begrudging as he'd like to when he comments on its beauty.

Subaru, breath on his ear, agrees, and when he looks over to scold him for not even looking at the city—the words are swallowed. Natsume's legs shake a little and he leans against the rail for support, remembering to breathe through his nose just in time for his chest to start hurting, and he remembers to return the kiss, too, at the same time. Subaru makes a pleased noise against his lips, and it's not so cold when they break. Natsume stares _slightly_ up at him, lips still parted, and doesn't fight when Subaru slides his arms around his middle and draws him in for another kiss.

("Wasn't it worth it?" Subaru asks on the train ride back home. Natsume glances sideways at him, lips pursed, before he glances away again and discreetly hooks his foot around Subaru's ankle with a vague hum of agreement.)


	12. hinatsu: practice (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [court of night-blooming flowers](http://kushiel.wikia.com/wiki/Court_of_Night-Blooming_Flowers) au. they're as old as you want them to be. don't @ me i haven't read this series yet, i just saw this elsewhere and went "NEAT" i promise i'm looking into reading these so i can do this better next time
> 
> :pray:

Those of the House of Dahlia conduct themselves with poise and grace; they’re regal and full of decorum. They don’t go gallivanting around the other houses, sneaking between chambers with secret passageways created by some oddball courtesan that are free of cobwebs and dust due to how often they’re used, and they certainly aren’t _dragged_ through them.

He can almost hear the older members of the house scolding him now, and he shrinks against Hinata as the other peeks out of the passage; Hinata pushes him back and leans away as a shadow crosses them, then resumes his position and grins when he looks over. “We’re almost there,” he whispers, though it seems louder, somehow. Maybe because there’s the threat of getting caught, of getting reprimanded, of getting his ears boxed like he’s some simple boy instead of the son of a noble family. Granted, they’ve fallen on harder times in recent years, and he’d been sold as a result, but– “Tsukasa?”

He blinks, opens his mouth, then shuts it with a hum. Hinata tilts his head, smile sticking, and motions. “We’re in the clear, so let’s go! Okay?”

Without another word, they bolt quickly across the room, making it to the next passage with the sound of a door opening to their right, and Tsukasa stumbles over his feet and onto Hinata; they both oof softly, and he pushes himself up. His apology is brushed off and they continue their trek to the Orchis rooms, finally reaching them–Yuta gives them both a look as they come in, but turns back to the patron he’s entertaining, and Hinata puckers his lips in a tight pout before he shakes it off in every literal sense of the phrase. The twins’ room isn’t any larger than his single room, the beds pushed to opposite sides of the space–he can tell immediately which side is which, and he still feels like he’s on high alert as he’s pushed effortlessly onto the one that obviously belongs to his company, with its sheets hastily tossed aside. Hinata crawls in beside him, laying on his side, and Tsukasa mimics him.

They share a smile–one wide, one small–and Hinata reaches over to push his hair behind his ear. “The guys in Dahlia really are something else~! Do you look as good under the pretty clothes?”

Tsukasa feels his face flush and he glances away; he doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he unbuttons his shirt halfway with the hand that isn’t trapped beneath his side and shivers when Hinata’s hand follows the line of his jaw, down to the juncture of his throat, to the nape of his neck before coming to rest between his collarbones. Dignity, decorum, manners–he isn’t of Alyssum, with their shy looks, so looking this way is… ill-fitting. He forces himself to look back at Hinata, just in time to catch his lips; it takes a moment of adjustment between both of them to get comfortable, but it isn’t too hard. They thread kisses with an ease that surprises him, with a few playful nips he chases until Hinata laughs and pulls away.

“This is supposed to help you, Tsukasa! You’re supposed to be dignified. Dignified people–”

He’s mortified at having someone from another house scold his behavior and he dips closer, shutting him up with a kiss; Hinata laughs again and goes with it, and Tsukasa waits a decent amount of time before he draws away himself. “Dignified people,” he sighs, sliding an arm beneath Hinata’s waist, fingers curling into the small of his back, “don’t chase. They initiate, kindly and calmly. They draw people to them with a tilt of their head, or a simple word.

“I know,” he continues quieter, cupping his cheek. “But it’s hard. Keito is always, always scolding me for the same reason…”

“Then I won’t scold you,” Hinata murmurs right back, nearly against his lips, eyes lidded and demeanor surprisingly muted. “Tsu~ka~sa~! You’re doing really well.”

It feels like empty praise, and he frowns at it–but he accepts the kisses anyway, accepts his shirt being unbuttoned the rest of the way, accepts the way his hips jerk at Hinata’s slight and nimble fingers caressing them. A breath shudders out of him as he’s pushed onto his back, as a pleasantly heavy weight settles just above his thighs. He blinks slowly at Hinata, wetting his lips as Hinata reaches under his unbelted tunic to pull it up and off; he pauses when Tsukasa touches him though, staring down, and Tsukasa clears his throat.

“What can this humble lord of Dahlia do for you tonight?”

“Hmm-hmm, you’re going to play that~?” Hinata’s lips quirk up, and he tosses his tunic to the side. Tsukasa’s lips twitch and immediately part when Hinata leans down to kiss him again, question unanswered. That’s fine–understanding without words is something he’s been working on too, and he rolls his hips with a startled gasp that matches the one blown into his mouth. The kisses turn a little needier, no less sweet or warm but _hotter_ , and he swallows them eagerly, daring to lick the inside of his mouth and getting rewarded with a pleased noise and Hinata grinding down on him. They part for air not long after, his chest tight and Hinata’s face red with excitement, and Tsukasa asks him, again, what he can do. Hinata’s grin slowly relaxes to a smile, and he flops down on him, arms wrapping around his neck.

“This is fine,” he says into his bared shoulder, every word kissing the skin there; he shivers when a tongue joins it, spit chilling the area as Hinata mouths his way back up. “I liiike laying around with Tsukasa~! You’re the one who wanted to do more, remember?”

“You’re always so touchy-feely, I thought you’d want more of me,” Tsukasa shoots back, finally finding stability enough in himself to rub his hands up and down Hinata’s back. He smiles against the lips that meet his again at last when a shaky breath exhales from them, warmth filling his chest at the softness. “I didn’t misread you, did I…? I did that with Yuta the other day since last week he–”

“The Yuta of last week was me,” Hinata whispers, secretive and amused. Tsukasa blinks quietly. “Yuta and I switch places sometimes~! And last week, when you came by, that was me. You really couldn’t tell the difference?”

He likes to think he can, but–obviously not.

“It’s okay,” Hinata continues reassuringly when he doesn’t reply, trailing kisses across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, stopping to pop him one on the tip of it, “most people can’t! A lot of people can’t. We’re used to it–that’s why we switch places! It’s fun!”

“Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean it’s okay.” From the way Hinata’s face scrunches, he knows he’s scolding, and Tsukasa tries to soften his tone a little, tracing numbers and equations he remembers from his tutors before he left between his shoulder blades. “I know it isn’t any of my business, but that’s what I believe.”

Hinata hums agreeably (though he isn’t sure which part it’s to; he isn’t sure _he_ knows which part, either) and returns to kissing his face, up to his hair line; Tsukasa chuckles at the tickle of his hair on his face and tilts his up a little, relishing in the giggle he gets when he kisses the smooth skin of his neck, and settles back down. He’s not surprised when Hinata’s fingers find their way to his side, wiggling mischievously and drawing laughter loudly from his lips–Orchis blooms are all about grins, after all, and he’s struggling to catch his breath between the mouth that descends back on his to swallow up the noise, and the hands that glide up and down his ribs. They snake further down after a while, fingers spreading beneath his loose cotton pants, and Tsukasa draws a series of ragged breaths as Hinata kisses down the smooth expanse of his chest and his stomach, tongue ducking into his bellybutton (he cries out then, jerking at the sensitivity and feeling ashamed at it), until he hits his waistline. The air is cold on his hot cock when his pants get tugged down, doubly so after Hinata’s (warm, wet, soft) mouth has been on it, and he forces himself to sit up, bracing himself on his forearms.

“I thought I was– practicing,” he stutters out the third time Hinata comes up, and the orange-haired boy wipes spit and precum off his lips with his thumb–though he licks it off the digit casually, face pinching at the taste slightly. “For Dahlia. Not you, for Orchis.”

“Ahaha, aren’t you? Just being elegant, right?” He grins, leaning forward to kiss him again and pulls away before he can kiss back. “Or do the _humble lords of Dahlia_ come undone so easily~? Maybe I should look into that~.”

Tsukasa thinks about Hinata with anyone else in his court and shakes his head, pushing his hand through soft orange locks, and lets his fingertips rest at the back of his neck. “No, you’re right. But allow me to serve you once you’ve had your fun, okay?”

“Haha, mmm, sure.” He lets Tsukasa pull him in for another kiss–he can feel that’s what it is, _letting him–_ and then tucks his hair behind his ear again to go back down on him. Tsukasa squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, far too aware of the spasms beneath his skin at the tongue flat against his cock and the pull of Hinata’s cheeks, the delicate touch he administers when he gets a hand involved to trace his base and barely skirt against his balls, like he’s trying to decide if he actually wants to do something with them. God, Tsukasa wants him to do something with them, but he keeps his mouth shut and tries to stay elegant, dignified, _noble_ even in the face of–

of–

of Hinata peeking up at him through his eyelashes, cheeks ruddy and eyes alight with mirthful warmth, and Tsukasa swears under his breath in a language he _knows_ Hinata hasn’t studied as he jerks his hips up. Hinata coughs around his cock, surprise flashing across his face, and Tsukasa cards his fingers in his hair gently as an apology as he tries his best to control himself and match the pace he’d set before, even though everything in his upbringing yells at him to take control of it and make Hinata match _his_. Hinata stops just on the edge of his climax, sweat trailing down their bodies, and almost trips shedding his own pants as he fetches some oil and a sheath at his request; Tsukasa grabs him instead of either implement when he comes back over despite that though, and Hinata’s laughter dissipates into wheezes and hiccoughs at the attention lavished to his neck. He at least stays his hands as his partner’s shaking ones apply condom and oil, only moving them when they’re tugged free so he can smear oil onto his fingers, too.

Hinata is hot and tight when the first one goes in, and Tsukasa slides one arm around his waist to keep him steady on his knees; Hinata winces slightly, nibbling his ear encouragingly for a second digit and squeezing him when he scissors them to help loosen him up, applying lubricant again and again when necessary. The little sighs he makes are lewd but pleasing, and Tsukasa’s almost certain his face is going to be stained this color, that his seniors in Dahlia are going to take one look at him and _know_ he’s been up to certain activities that should be performed solely for patrons or for Showings. He works a third finger in perhaps a little too impatiently at the thought, kissing Hinata’s temple with an apology that’s murmured and slightly less sincere than he means it to be.

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, adjusting his position slightly, and Hinata nods. Tsukasa smiles slightly and withdraws his fingers, then eases Hinata onto him with as much delicacy as he can manage when he’s burning up with need on the inside. He waits, grip tight and desperate on his hips, as Hinata gets used to the feeling, and pulls one of his hands away to take one of Hinata’s, lacing their fingers together. The gesture earns him a breathy, surprised laugh, and Tsukasa pulls it to his lips to kiss his middle knuckles with what little nobility he can spare. Regality, proper manners, decorum.

“Whatever you ask of me, Hinata, I shall provide.” He’s surprised at how steady his voice is, even if it’s faint and low to keep it that way, and Hinata shivers on him pleasantly (god, _so_ pleasantly). “Can I move?”

Hinata’s answer is a quiet, steady _please_ , and he squeezes their joined hands. They work themselves into an easier pace than they’d have if they were being watched, but it quickens when Hinata lets go and falls back onto the bed, preferring to hook one of his legs on Tsukasa’s shoulder instead and moaning loud enough for Yuta to bang on the door when Tsukasa rocks into him. The new position shows off his flexibility, something Tsukasa admires and finds himself jealous of in equal measure, and he tests it as he tries to find exactly what and where makes Hinata feel best. He isn’t sure he finds it by the time he comes in him, something that would’ve been much messier if not for the condom, and he strokes Hinata until he comes too, hands twisting the sheets beneath them and Tsukasa’s name slipping out between bloody, bitten lips.

Tsukasa leans down and kisses him gently, swiping the blood off with his tongue–not his favorite taste, and one that makes him feel sick to be frank, but he doesn’t want to get red anywhere and he doesn’t want to get up, either. Hinata sighs happily, wrapping his arms around his neck and licking his own lips when Tsukasa stops.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” He asks when breathing stops being such a chore; Hinata hums, nuzzling his neck, and Tsukasa waits as he cards his fingers through his hair gently. “If there is, Hinata…”

“There’s not. We~ll,” he amends, stretching his arms up and letting them fall back again, “it’d be nice if you could stay over, but I bet you can’t, right?”

Tsukasa presses a small smile to his shoulder and shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Getting cleaned up and redressing themselves is a quiet affair, and sneaking back is easier than sneaking away–most people are busy now, having moved to more private rooms or gone to bathe or to eat–and Hinata holds his hands tighter when they reach Dahlia’s quarters. It isn’t as if they have a particular affection for each other–maybe–he doesn’t know, he knows he likes Hinata and he’s sure it’s returned–but it’s moments like these he steps closer and kisses him shyly, hands twisting until palms press flat against palms.

Hinata smiles like he knows something he doesn’t, then turns him around and shoves him forward; he laughs when Tsukasa stumbles, sending a pout over his shoulder once he’s caught his balance, and the door shuts heavy between them.


	13. ritsumao: firsts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i ended up getting too busy for rtmo week so i'm just... gonna... gently.... repost this to my story collection WHOOPS.

The first time they kiss, he gets butterflies. It's during his first summer break in middle school, the heat an all-time high (or maybe it just feels that way, with Ritsu in a loose tank top and pressed firmly against his side, skin sticky and looking like he's just short of leaving to find somewhere cooler than the shade of the tree in his backyard), and it only happens because they're talking about what it'd be like. What it'd taste like, because Mao heard from his classmates that first kisses taste like lemons, and Ritsu had rolled his eyes and said it wouldn't taste like anything.

It doesn't. Taste like anything, that is, but he thinks about how soft Ritsu's lips are, how the bravado of "whatever, let's just do it so you can see how wrong they are" melts away into shy hesitance when push comes to shove, how heavy the hand on his knee feels. Somehow, all of that makes up for the fact Ritsu laughs at him for being gullible when he admits that yeah, it didn't taste like lemons, and neither of them mention it again.

The second time they kiss, Ritsu's dressed in Yumenosaki Academy's blue, and Mao's still in his middle school black. He breathes through his nose, fingers slowly relaxing their grip on his wrist, and just as slowly opens his eyes when he leans away. Ritsu stares at him, his usual sleepy expression open, and Mao's pulse beats in his ears. It's so he doesn't forget him, he mumbles, cheeks warm, and Ritsu calls him such a kid and laughs. That's really rich coming from someone who needs a middle schooler to wake them up in the morning, he retorts.

Ritsu slides his hand down to take his and squeeze it once, and it's a long time untangling their fingers before Mao's falls back to his side, the chill spring air rushing against it. He curls his fingers into his palm as he counts Ritsu's movements (one: turn away; two: raise his hand; three: start walking; four: drop his hand; five, and five fingers uncurled at the same speed: leave), and smiles slightly when he remembers being left behind in primary was the same way.

The year seems so long, but eventually he gets his acceptance letter, and eventually he's got Ritsu's hand in his again as they walk to school together. Ritsu teases him about the new look ( _Hoping to change your image, Maakun?_ ) and Mao laughs, reaching up to fix his hairclip self-consciously.

Maybe a little. He's a high schooler now, after all, and Ritsu gives him half of a smile he can't read. Their hands part again as soon as they hit the gate, slipping into pockets instead, and crossing onto campus makes him nervous in a way he can't explain. The weeks pass and the feeling grows, like a storm waiting to make landfall, but he can't dwell on it for too long: he finds his way into the student council as the presidency makes an unofficial change of hands, Rei Sakuma respectfully fleeing the country and leaving it in his second-year vice president's hands.

Ritsu retreats into the shell he'd worked so hard to get him out of, punctuated by irritated snaps and weary dismissals. Eichi Tenshouin, silk hiding steel, smiles behind the large mahogany desk and rests in the chair that was meant for someone much taller.

They almost have their third kiss, sitting together with Anzu in the park next year; she even respectfully leaves to get them drinks when Mao finally stirs, the sunset cool on his face, and Ritsu leans in. All he does is push his bangs back though and put his stolen hairclip back in though, fingertips lingering at the corner of his mouth when he trails his hand back to his jaw. Mao's pulse quickens beneath it, more awake than he's ever been, and Ritsu smiles in that crooked way he's come to associate with secrets as he pulls away and teases him for falling asleep so quickly, how he's going to really become a night owl like this.

Anzu glances between them when she returns and notes the lukewarm distance, wondering if there's anything she can do.

They grow without growing apart, even if it feels like that sometimes—some days, the only times they see each other are in the morning and during class. It's lonely, Mao thinks as he peels a tangerine beneath his desk, the teacher droning just ahead of him. He feels Ritsu's gaze on and off of him, slippery as oil, but he never manages to catch it.

Their actual third kiss is one he's barely aware of; there's a soft pressure on his lips, and half-awake he's fairly sure the person leaning over him is Ritsu, but when he stirs fully the other boy's turned away from him, shoulders rising and falling with the steady breath of someone asleep. The sheets are warm under his cheek though, a small proof that someone'd been closer moments before, and he thinks about pulling Ritsu onto his back.

So he does, and when Ritsu's eyes flutter open, they're guilty and alert. Mao pushes his bangs back uncertainly, then leans down and kisses him (fourth), and when Ritsu kisses back (fifth), his throat tightens and he lets his hand fall away, using it to brace himself against the bed instead. They're clumsy and unused to it, remembering to breathe through their noses just in time to break apart for air, and their mistake is in locking eyes. Something he can't read creeps up behind Ritsu's, and Mao feels his mind scattering and shuffling, trying to put everything back together. He tries to pull away and stops when Ritsu grabs the back of his neck, but the hand slips away almost immediately (nails trailing, he suppresses a shiver) and Mao follows through with moving away.

Their apologies are unspoken words traded with juice and snacks instead.

Mao thinks about that kiss (those kisses) for longer than he likes to admit, days and nights and weeks and months. It sticks in his mind the way their first kiss did, how it still does. He thinks about kissing Ritsu again under the tree in his backyard, slick with summer sweat, slick with other things, and most of the time he touches himself without even thinking about it. He thinks about sitting in that too tall chair with Ritsu on his lap, heavy and hot and slipping a finger beneath his tie to loosen it, and before he knows it, at least half of that fantasy is true.

Sitting in the chair, that is. Their third year he works just as hard as previously, with basketball (Ritsu's eyes never leave him, and it motivates him as much as it turns him on, thinking about celebrations in the locker room when everyone else has left—he's always the last one out, it'd be fine), with Lives (embarrassing as it is to see him in the audience when he can be, it makes him feel lighter, more determined to show off just how far he can go), with the student council. Ritsu's around less then—he doesn't get along particularly well with Tori, especially with the younger boy being the leader of _fine_ now and the friendly rivalry sparking between him and _knights_ ' young king—but he still comes to visit from time to time. He's a heavy, familiar weight against his legs where he's decided to roost, out of the way but still present, and Mao idly plays with his hair every so often as he works.

Balancing college and idolwork isn't easy, but they manage. They manage rooming together too, beds at opposite walls (they'd wanted bunk, but couldn't decide who'd get the top and compromised instead), and Mao keeps his hands folded over his chest as he reads something for class and keeps Ritsu's bright phonescreen in his peripheral. His fingers fly over it, and when he glances over, he finds there's a look of irritation on his face; Mao tilts his head, wondering what that's about, and shuts his book just in time to hear Ritsu tell him not to worry.

It doesn't have anything to do with him. It's _knights_ business.

Mao closes his mouth and reclines back against his pillow, opening his book back up. He feels Ritsu watch him and pretends to read, only glancing back over when he feels Ritsu's satisfied that he's distracted again and he's shifted his gaze back to his phone. The irritation returns, more muted than before, and he's quick to look back at the same page he's been reading for the past fifteen minutes when Ritsu sets his phone aside and curls up in his blankets. Mao quietly shuts his book and swings his legs over the side of his bed, setting it on the desk whose owner changes by the day as he wanders over to Ritsu's side of the room. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and Ritsu turns his head just enough that he can see crimson through his slit eyes.

Mao sighs, shuffling closer until his knees touch his curved back, and leans over him.

Their— _something_ th kiss comes because Ritsu doesn't want to get lectured on how it's fine to vent to him (seeing as he does the vice versa enough), and it isn't like the last time they kissed—Mao presses him into the mattress, shivering at Ritsu's hands under his shirt, tracing his stomach and sliding up his chest. Somewhere between losing his pants and figuring out the sounds Ritsu makes are so, so much better in real life than they've ever been in his imagination, he gets dicked. 

It's a little nicer than that, admittedly. Laying in a sticky, sweaty mess isn't, but the bathroom is at the other end of the hall, and Ritsu is cloyingly warm; Mao swallows his discomfort (or, rather, the knowledge that there _will be_ discomfort in their futures) and pulls him closer, pressing his face into his hair. Ritsu leaves a lazy necklace of kisses on his collarbones, laughing when Mao's skin prickles beneath his lips—he can feel it with pinpoint accuracy, and he pinches Ritsu's back as a warning. A nose presses into his throat instead, and he glances at his lamp across the room.

He resolves to get one that responds to clapping or something next week and doesn't wonder if this first means more of this, like it did with kisses.

Their relationship shifts somewhere to the left, to the right, to something a little off of "childhood friends". It isn't often, but sometimes Ritsu'll slide his hands under his shirt when he's doing homework, or when one of them's just gotten back in, or after a shower, and the rest follows in due course. Walls, beds, desks, doors. It's not bad—it's something he's been thinking about for a while, longer than he cares to admit, and something he keeps thinking about now that it's actually happened—and it doesn't leave him in a lurch, necessarily. 

Him and Ritsu are just him and Ritsu, after all, no matter what that "and" takes the form of, after all.

It isn't something he can easily place a label on either, even if people start asking him if he's seeing someone, even if they give Ritsu and him looks whenever the former's curled up on his lap, his arms around his waist and his face buried in his stomach, shoulders rising in peaceful slumber. Even then. Maybe he doesn't want to put a name to it, because doing that means officially shifting away from innocence and moving into something new, and he knows how Ritsu feels about change.

He knows how he feels about change, too. It's a little scary—welcome, but scary—and it happens, sure, but it doesn't happen to _them._ Not like this.

Their first talk about it comes incidentally, and discussion peters out the second Ritsu slumps against him on the bed and kisses him instead. So, right, their first failure to talk about it, technically. Mao lets him lay on him, legs between his and his head buried in the crook of his neck, and he thinks about how to approach it differently. Maybe if they don't just accidentally stumble into the topic because of this or that, it'll go better. It won't end with a makeout session and absolutely nothing talked about. Maybe.

Even if, he guesses, they don't _need_ to talk about it. Nothing about it is necessary, though going over the fervor in which Ritsu'd shut him up makes him want to talk about it instead—it's scary, change is, but this isn't a bad one, is it? Whether or not they put a label to it, things are different, a little, and—

"You're thinking too loudly," Ritsu grumbles, squeezing him, and Mao blinks in the darkness and laughs, apologizing quietly when he brushes the hair out of Ritsu's face and kisses his temple.

One of them turns twenty before the other, and the fact only one of them is old enough to drink doesn't stop cans of cheap beer and things like that from appearing in their dorm room. Ritsu doesn't do it often—most of them are because of his friends, a few of who _do_ like to drink and also like to come over despite not attending college—but he does it, sometimes. Never before he has work, and usually when he's upset about this or that.

Sometimes it's his brother. Sometimes it's something else. Sometimes it's Mao, who keeps treating him like he's delicate, _apparently_ , even though he personally can't recall anything like that. Ritsu throws an empty can at him when he tries to defend himself, an ugly scowl distorting his cute features, and Mao slinks out of the room with a ball of frustration sitting dark and ugly in his stomach. It isn't their first fight—fuck no it isn't, not anymore—but it's the first time that, instead of avoiding him for a stupid amount of time, Ritsu comes out of the room and joins him on the ground outside their door.

They're quiet, sullen, and not really wanting to say anything to each other, but Ritsu curls against his side and closes his eyes, and Mao

against his better judgment, _always_ against his better judgment

lets him, shifting to make them both comfortable and resting his cheek on the crown of his best friend (with benefits? boyfriend? something?)'s head. He closes his eyes, and before he knows it, it's morning with a group of boys crowding around them, peering at them as if to make sure they're alive. Mao waves them off, wincing when he straightens up and his back cracks in protest. Ritsu protests too, burying his face further into his neck, and he waits for the crowd to disperse before he pulls both of them to standing.

His clock reads eleven, which means he's late for a meeting and Ritsu's late for class. He shoves aside the frustration again and tucks Ritsu into bed instead, breathing in the faint alcohol scent when Ritsu grabs his shirt with a surprising grip and jerks him back down for a kiss. The grip doesn't loosen, not even with his other hand carding gently through his hair, and Mao has to reach up and uncurl his fingers so he can pull away.

Ritsu scowls at him, cute despite the red around his eyes and in their whites, and Mao tells him to go back to sleep.

The incident doesn't repeat itself in the days and weeks that follow, but only because they never talk about it or whatever might've caused it. _Now_ it feels like growing apart, just missing each other by seconds—avoiding each other without it seeming like they're doing so, he guesses—and around Christmas, Mao pulls Ritsu into the snow and a street filled with glittering lights. It's a little nervewracking—it's the first time in a while they'll be alone and together, sleeping at night aside—but he swallows his nervousness and ignores the grumbling at his side as they stroll. He doesn't notice when it quiets, but he notices when Ritsu tugs his hand and motions down another street.

There's a massive tree at the end of it, and they both stare at it for a moment before they share a look and briskly go to it; it's even bigger up close, and Mao squints when he looks up to see the star.

Ritsu tugs his hand, again, and when he looks over, Ritsu kisses him.

It's softer than usual, tongue pressing against his lips more like an apology than a request to enter, and Mao turns to him and wraps his arms around his waist. It warms him up, something gentle and languid like this, at least until he remembers they're in public and visibly themselves. He draws away with an apology, pressing their foreheads together, and Ritsu stares at him for a good, long moment.

Then he sighs and closes his eyes, arms loose on his shoulders.

They still don't talk about it, but they talk again, at least. They don't talk about it until Ritsu decides they're going to, apparently, but it isn't as much of as talk as it is Mao waking up to being straddled, suffocating warmth not unwelcome in the still-cold morning, and Ritsu telling him they're going out. Mao wonders if it has anything to do with the girls that've been talking to him recently, asking for help on classwork and things like that. He wisely doesn't ask, but reaches up to brush some dark hair from Ritsu's face and teases that he was pretty sure they've been going out for a while, actually.

_Glad to see you finally realized it,_ he continues and squirms with laughter when Ritsu drags the pillow out from under his head to smack him.


	14. ritsumao: angel/demons au

the journey out of heaven is a long one, and the holy divinity says they can't eat before they go; a lonely stomach will weigh them down, making it easier to descend for their annual meeting with the devils that eat and eat without a care.

mao supposes he must know something about it, seeing as he goes every year and this is just _his_ first time, but his stomach complains and his face grows hot at the gentle, amused smile tossed his way. they're on their way to meet two princes of hell—princes, but as powerful as any king, and they should be treated as such. and, the divinity continues, it's important not to eat anything they offer. if it's touched by their hand, it's cursed.

he doesn't know what that means, and the divinity won't tell him, but he isn't eager to find out.

they meet in a garden in a country he doesn't recognize (but that the divinity informs him is "england), and among the flowers, they introduce themselves. eichi, the holy divinity of heaven, the light that guides, and his attendant, mao. rei, a prince of the sixth hell, a decrier of heaven, and his little brother, ritsu.

 _a prince too,_ mao reminds himself, though he hardly has a list of titles the way that his older brother does. they sit down to eat, angels at one end of the long table and devils at the other, and the conversation is surprisingly... light. he isn't sure what he was expecting, but a cheerful banter between the two lords wasn't it. ritsu doesn't join in, carving fruit in his hand and watching them instead, and after a time, mao watches him.

the mistake, though, comes in the divinity accepting the decrier's invitation to walk off the meal; eichi gives him a level look, a silent reminder of the rules they spoke of before, and mao smiles in a way he really hopes comes off as reassuring before they leave. it's just him and ever quiet ritsu then, surrounded by sweet smelling roses and geraniums, left alone. the silence is a little unnerving, but he doesn't know what to talk about, so he picks at his food and startles when a hand slides onto his shoulder, fingertips brushing the base of one of his wings.

ritsu smiles, slow and predatory, and mao's mouth goes dry.

the hand slides down his arm to meet his own, pulling it up with fingers pushed between each other, and he keeps in mind peace and purity as he agrees to move further down the table. it's too big, and it makes talking hard for people who don't like hearing their own voices over the birds; it's ritsu's explanation for it, for pulling mao to the seat beside him (dimly, he remembers this is the decrier's), for keeping their hands joined together and hanging between them. mao agrees a little, aware of the way the divinity had to raise his voice and the practiced patience that edged it.

he confesses, four glasses of a syrupy red wine later, that he doesn't know why they're here. he's playing with his empty glass's stem, eyes lowered and voice hushed. ritsu's turned his chair around by now, arms pillowing his head on the back of it as he watches him talk, and shrugs slightly when mao looks at him for an answer. he doesn't know either: usually, it's the divinity's right hand man that comes. he knows what happens _then_ (and the way ritsu says it makes his occupied fingers stall and his free hand reach for the ever-lightening wine bottle), but with the holy divinity himself?

the conversation lulls as they contemplate it, or as mao tries to and ritsu maybe does, and before he can pour himself a fifth helping of the delightfully sweet wine he rescued from the angel side of the table (because, blessedly, sober mao remembered accepting things from devils spells trouble), he's pulled up. ritsu's mouth hovers by his ear, breath soft and warm as he asks if he'd like to take a walk somewhere, and mao thinks about the hand at his elbow, the press of fingertips on the small of his back, a cloying scent filling his nostrils this close to the decrier's younger brother.

going is probably a terrible idea, and he hesitates until ritsu continues that they'll be looking for their two missing party members, that's all. no need to worry. it's been a while, after all; he's _worried_. isn't mao?

_hm?_

a little. he is a little worried, and he's a little worried about himself as he leaves his wine and he leaves the safety and sanctity of the area. earth is neutral ground though, so it isn't as if anything really bad can happen—he can't die or get hurt, because that would go against the tentative rules of peace they have, but he still feels his heart beat heavy in his chest, aching with every step. their search is relatively fruitless, and the sun's dropped in the sky significantly by the time they take a seat. just a quick rest, ritsu says as he stretches out beneath the shade of a tree, head tilted back against it. mao wonders if it's awkward to sleep with horns like that, and maybe he wonders a little too loudly, because ritsu laughs and asks him if he'd like to see for himself.

the question makes his skin crawl, and he politely declines.

too bad, ritsu replies, head lolling to the side. he was looking forward to kidnapping an angel from heaven. when he asks what he'd do with one (with him), ritsu puckers his lips thoughtfully and says he doesn't know. he's never thought too hard about it, just that he wants to, just to say he did, and when he turns the question on him—what would he do with a kidnapped devil?—mao's eyebrows knit together and he scoots into the shade, the sun making him feel vaguely nauseous with the wine still in his stomach. ritsu doesn't move, and this close, mao isn't even sure he's breathing.

do devils need to breathe?

do angels? he just does it normally, because he was human, once, he's sure, and humans need air, and

he'd learn about devils, he replies finally, turning to his company. his incredibly close company, with very red lips and very red eyes and an aroma that's sweeter than the peach blossoms swaying above them. mao's voice catches in his throat, words sticking like his robes stick to his back, and ritsu asks about the kinds of things he'd like to learn about devils. if he'd like to learn a few things, now, and mao has never been more thankful for the holy divinity's voice calling his name.

ritsu looks cross from the corner of his eye when he turns to call back, and he forces himself to stand and back off a few steps. it gets easier the further he is away, and they head back to the table with five feet between them and a quiet humid with unanswered questions hanging over them.

the holy divinity asks if he had a good time on the way back—if devils were what he thought they were. mao weighs his words carefully, tongue heavy in his mouth when he thinks about ritsu and the way he looked with sunlight filtering through the leaves, and asks if he can come along again next time.

next time is next year, and ritsu's the same as the year before. he's quiet at lunch, eating like it's just something to do, while mao wolfs down food like a starving man (because he is, the same rules as before applying). their two lords leave them alone, again, and like before, ritsu invites him down to his side of the table.

mao brings his plate, still picking at food but not entirely hungry enough to finish it, and they discuss things that don't matter because he can't remember them when he's drunk on a white wine that tastes like honey and nectar. ambrosia, he thinks, and doesn't resist when ritsu takes his hand and leads him on what he suspects is going to be their yearly adventure in attempting to find out what such important people do on their walk.

except they don't try too hard, for too long. they come to the peach tree sooner than before, and mao's the one who rests against it this them. ritsu puts his hands on either side of his thighs, leaning in, and mao can't help but wonder if accepting kisses is the same as food.

he feels sleepy and slow and languid, and ritsu's mouth is hot, his lips soft, his tongue a gentle pressure. it isn't the first time he's kissed someone (it isn't allowed, but things happen in the angel dormitories, and everyone turns a blind eye to a little play as long as it doesn't get out of hand), but it's the first time it's a guy, and it's the first time it's a devil, and it's the first time he's done it on the second meeting. it's only a kiss, though, that leaves him dizzingly warm and heavy, because maybe his lordship has a second sense for misbehaving, considering the swiftness he has in finding them this time.

his face is pink and he's out of breath, and mao wonders if he's projecting a little or if the holy divinity really does look like he's been kissing heaven's least favorite devil.

it's too early to go back properly, so they return to the table and resume talks about this and that. mao watches ritsu, or, no, he watches his lips, the way they catch and pucker on the lush red skin of a round fruit, how fangs tear at the flesh and tiny red seeds spill out like cut rubies. the juice runs down the side of his mouth, his gloves, his wrist, his forearm, and how his tongue follows that in reverse—his forearm, his wrist, his gloves, his mouth, his

he tenses at the holy divinity's touch on his shoulder and looks away from the sight, heartbeat erratic and guilty.

he goes a third year, though. ritsu invites himself over to his side instead, feet kicked up on the table; he's enjoying the thin look he gets from the divinity, that's for certain, and mao sips his drink without tasting it. maybe it doesn't have a taste, just rose-colored water that gets you alone with devils despite the warnings ringing from every which way. it sure seems like that, with ritsu's hand curled around his wrist the second they're left to their own devices again, walking at a brisk pace through the english garden. there's a maze of roses that, wow, it's really big and terribly hard to find a way through. he's leery of just shoving through though—his wings, he explains softly, they're sensitive, and by ritsu's interested hum he feels like that isn't something he should have said—so they meet dead end after dead end after dead end instead.

the center of the rose labyrinth is worth it, though, with a smooth sandstone floor and a massive bubbling fountain, decorated with women that are half-naked, half fish. mao lets the cool spay of the water sober him up while ritsu crawls beneath a stone bench and curls in the shadows there, and when he can think properly he takes a seat beside the bench and watches the clouds drift above. it looks like it might rain, which is apparently a common enough occurrence, but it hasn't happened while _they've_ been here before, and if he's really honest with himself, he's interested in seeing what it looks like from down here.

if he's really, really honest with himself, he's interested in seeing what ritsu looks like wet, too.

the thought stings like sin and he shrinks against the stone, wondering if the holy divinity can tell, and the stinging dissipates when he feels ritsu's lips attach themselves to his neck. he's ticklish there and he gasps, moving to shove him off but curling his fingers into his shirt instead, pulling him out into the sun and on top of him.

ritsu's leg slots neatly between his, and a cloud shifts over the sun.

mao has three red marks just barely hidden beneath the color of his robes by the time they find their way out of the maze again and back to their waiting companions. he has one not-so-hidden just beneath his hair on his neck, and not for the first time is he thankful for growing his hair out a little. maybe he'll keep that up.

maybe he should cut it, since ritsu seems to like it, and devils liking things isn't a good thing. usually. but he thinks about how nice it feels, kissing him, and logically he knows it's because it's temptation, it's sin, it's a hundred other things he isn't supposed to engage in, especially with a devil—

and it makes his chest heavy, with want and with guilt—

but it feels nice, too, and he reassures himself that if the holy divinity can get away with having his lips bitten and torn by a prince of hell without anything bad happening to him, then certainly he can do the same.

it's a weak defense, but angels were human, once. angels were human, and humans are so weak to things that aren't good for them, and a little holy light and a halo doesn't help that, not when the thing that isn't good for them is inclined to whisking them away to increasingly more secretive parts of a massive garden to kiss them slow and sweet and gently. mao cards his fingers through oil black hair, the weight of ritsu's hand on his hip pleasant yet feeling like a nail in his palm, and he's aware he doesn't even have an excuse, this time.

he barely ate. he barely drank.

his stomach growls as if to reinforce his thought, and he's glad his face can't get any warmer than it already is at the amused look ritsu gives him, drawing away.

the fruit he's offered is a pomegranate. he looked it up, after he watched ritsu savor every last drop and bit of it that second year. there's dozens of stories about it, about how it traps people in the underworld, about how it's the fruit that ruined humanity's chances at eden. both apply liberally and literally to his situation, he's certain, if the holy divinity is to be believed (and he doesn't know if he is, because technically, the whole lunch is offered by the devils, and they can still go back to heaven after having it, so), but regardless of the state of his faith—

mao purses his lips in an apologetic smile, and ritsu peels the pomegranate with his teeth. the seeds spill out between them, juice pale pink and probably going to stain his robes, and he knows. he knows, exactly, what ritsu's going to do, with rubies on his tongue and leaning in, and he almost

_almost_

_**almost**_ lets him, but he covers the encroaching mouth with his hand and shakes his head. there are lines he'll toe, but that isn't one he's comfortable getting anywhere close to. ritsu's face falls and for a second, the pomegranate on his lips looks like blood, but he pulls away and eats the fruit without fanfare.

mao's stomach complains again, but neither of them pay it any mind.

every year, it becomes a game of trying to get him to eat a seed or two. or three. he sees them in his food, in his drink, between ritsu's fingers, between his teeth. it's exhausting, running from it, but he's been such a good attendant to his holiness that there's no question that he'll go to the yearly luncheon every time.

he asks ritsu, again, what he'd do with a kidnapped angel. ritsu's heavy on his lap, and the smell that'd been so cloying and seductive and inviting before's become so normal to him he finds it hard to imagine he was ever drawn in by it—this weight, too, and the warmth that comes with it. ritsu hums, arms around his neck and forehead pressed against his, and says he still doesn't know.

but he wants mao, he confesses softly, like nothing else he's wanted before.

pomegranates don't taste so terrible. he doesn't take what ritsu offers, but he has one on his own time (with his holiness' blessing and warning not to eat too many), and he wonders if it works in reverse. that if he gives ritsu food and succor, if he'll be unable to go to hell, but apparently it doesn't. his holiness reassures him that only angels get punished for misdeeds between the two of them—and devils can't be redeem either, besides—offer away, but be careful.

he kisses ritsu and he feeds him seeds hidden beneath his tongue, relishes in the way his breath hitches and stutters and gasps for a myriad of reasons. for mao starting, for mao's intensity, for the food. it's dangerous, doing this at the table, even with their guardians gone, but he's been thinking about this all year, and even if he's so used to so many things, he isn't used to how good it feels to have what he isn't supposed to. he's still guilty, and it still keeps him from committing to more than kissing and vaguely inappropriate touches skirting the edge of something more, but it doesn't keep him from dwelling on the casual gestures and brushes of hands on hands, elbows, sides, cheeks.

he might be falling. it's hard to tell, but he knows he's still allowed into heaven, and he isn't growing claws and his wings aren't turning black and his feathers aren't rotting or anything that apparently signifies being tainted, so... maybe he isn't.

or maybe he is, and it isn't something you notice, and mao stays awake thinking about it after every visit, every year.


	15. various: kiss day (05/23)

**narukasa, hand kiss**  
Tsukasa wishes he could claim he's no long surprised by his senpai—he's a second-year, now, he knows them quite well—but that simply isn't true. For example, finding himself moved to the futon after he's opted to stay late and fallen asleep at the studio's table surrounded by work—work that's completed, too, in Ritsu's handwriting. Or, in another case, the feel of Arashi's hands; they're not quite soft, a fact his unitmate laments often, but they're smooth and they smell nice and they look pretty, too.

Tsukasa, without thinking too hard on it, brings one up to press his lips to the back of it. Arashi quiets down, and he slowly lifts his gaze back up to him with a small, shy smile. _For Knights' queen,_ he replies to the unasked question, referring to an offhand comment from earlier about not being treated a such lately, and Arashi stares for a moment before he laughs, covering his mouth with free hand and glancing away.

_You really are, like, a real knight, aren't you Tsukasa-chan~? How cu~ute! ♡_

 

 **subanatsu, hello kiss**  
They're accustomed to being away from each other for work; after all, Trickstar is incredibly popular, and Switch has its own lion share of fans, though recently Natsume's been asked to take over for his mother again on the fortunetelling circuit. Regardless, it's something they're used to, so Natsume really

really

does not see why today is different, why Subaru slides his arm around his waist and brings him close with a whispered hey before he tilts his head and leans in. Natsume stiffens a little—physical contact is something he's gradually gotten used to, sure, he's had to, with the people he's ended up spending time with, with the growth he's decided to pursue—but this is a (surprisingly pleasant) surprise, and Subaru's already pulling away by the time the prickling on the back of his neck begins to fade. Not too much (his arm is still around him, his cheeks close enough to see the faint red staining them), but enough to breathe, and Natsume takes a moment to do that.

Then he closes his eyes and grumbles about his moving too soon, hand sliding up to curl his fingers into his jacket and pull him closer again.

 

 **mitsukasa, pocky game**  
There are just a few things Tsukasa hates in this world.

One is being teased by his seniors. Two is his name being forgotten, after countless introduction. Three is losing, and he ignores the quiet cheers of their classmates as he nibbles forward on the pocky stick. Mitsuru grins at him around his end, biting ahead a sizable amount, enough that their noses brush at the tip. If he isn't careful, Mitsuru'll take the rest and he'll have had less than half of the stick—but if he takes this last bit, if he manages that, he'll turn out victorious.

He realizes, moving forward, how close that makes them, and then he realizes Mitsuru has soft lips, and that it isn't so bad, kissing him, and his fingers press into the desk when he pulls away and chews the rest of the pocky. Mitsuru huffs at the loss, though he's in better spirits the next when Sora expresses his interest in having a go the same way he always expresses anything (cheerfully, genuinely cutely), and Tsukasa lets the chocolate melt on his tongue.

Victory is sweet and warm, and he thinks he likes it an embarrassing bit.

 

 **izukasa, whatever**  
It's really, really fucking hard to take Tsukasa serious "as a fully-grown man" (his words, not Izumi's) when he pouts over missing out on his favorite ice cream, or when he turns the kitchen into a veritable battlefield trying to cook in the mornings, or when he still sniffles at dog movies no matter how many times he sees them.

(Fine, he'll concede, he does the same thing, but at least he isn't _loud_ and _wibbling_ about it.)

And sure.

He'll also concede that those are cute things about Tsukasa, things he doesn't actually find too annoying and things he likes pressing and teasing about because the face he makes is absolutely wonderful, with his brows drawn together in distress and his skin flushed with shame and embarrassment— but it still really, really makes it hard to take him seriously, when he asks not to be treated like a kid.

 _If the shoe fits,_ Izumi replies again, tilting his magazine up a little to better see his picture—shit, they used that one, really?—and scowling when it's tugged from his hands. Tsukasa's close and closer and then over him, a hand pressing his shoulder into the couch and the other steadying himself on the back of it, and Izumi feels his nails dig into his empty palms before he flattens them against the cushions and pushes himself up. Tsukasa moves with him, over the back of the couch and onto him properly, an awkward straddle for the size of the furniture (maybe they should get a bigger one, or maybe they shouldn't make out on it like this), and draws away just a hair's breadth away to ask to be taken seriously, please, Sena-san.

Izumi licks his lips and arches up into him with a sigh.

 

 **ritsumao, the sound of waves**  
There are a few things about the day Mao decides to commit to memory:

Like Ritsu leaving his ice cream unattended for so long, having decided to tease Mao instead, and the look on his face when the top two scoops slid off into his lap in the heat; like the softness of Ritsu's gaze he catches out of the corner of his eye, fingers curled against his cheek when he watches Mao set off sparklers on the beach; like the moon above them, painting everything in stark black shadow and white light, and the way Ritsu seems there but not there, despite the warmth of the hand in his and the swinging between them.

He listens to the ocean break against the beach and finds a fourth thing to remember: Ritsu's breath against his lips, the water cold on their bare feet, the gentleness of the gesture that sanctifies the moment.

 

 **ritsumao, kissing in secret**  
This is _supposed_ to be a high-class event, and they're _supposed_ to be with their unitmates, and they're _supposed_ to be better than ducking behind doors and corners and beneath unoccupied tables in an attempt to hide from conversation that insists on tracking them down. They're supposed to be mature idols who can handle a little chatter, but Ritsu's tired of dealing with people and Mao is, as he ever his, his keeper.

Their excuse, anyway.

Ritsu just enjoys listening to people talk two feet away while he has his hands in Mao's suit pockets, his tie around his hand, his lips on his neck. It's dirty, the threat of being caught, and he knows Mao is equal parts anxious and into this kind of thrill. He's just giving him what he wants, he murmurs when he finally disconnects his mouth from his pulse, just like he always does. Someone to fuss over, something to meddle in, something to worry about.

Mao tugs the back of his head in a halfhearted attempt to scold him, and Ritsu laughs softly.

 

 **ritsumao, good morning kiss**  
It doesn't matter how many times he chastises Ritsu for being spoiled; he knows it's his own fault, for giving in easier and easier to the warmth offered by a blanket cocoon in winter, for giving into Ritsu's soft and sweet voice crooning out of his bed, asking for a reward for waking up before Mao even got to his house. Waking up doesn't mean anything if he isn't willing to actually get up and get ready, Mao reminds him, even if it means a lot for Ritsu (and he knows it does, slides his hands beneath Ritsu's shirt and smiles, amused, at the shiver and hiss that he gets).

At least rewards are easy; he's usually satisfied with a few extra minutes in bed, with the opportunity to cuddle Mao and mumble about how his sleep went, though the way Ritsu tugs at his shirt and tries to get him to move back a bit makes him think that's not all he wants. Mao at least listens to him, forehead creasing slightly, and Ritsu's lips pull up on one side in a crooked smile before he leans in.

...Kissing is new, is different, even if it's on the corner of his mouth; Mao doesn't know what to do with his hands, with his face, with anything, and he can't relax at all when Ritsu pulls back with a sleepy yawn.

 

 **narumika, kiss during an ice cream date**  
Arashi is pretty, like, real pretty, and Mika watches him talk while he pokes at the soft serve he'd agreed to get. They're in a corner booth, away from prying eyes and, more importantly, people who might stare or come over and want to talk (really, his biggest sources of anxiety even still, even if this shop's a little out of the way so like, really, Mika-chan, not _that_ many students from Yumenosaki would come here, you know?), and Mika enjoys the way Arashi's little spoon waves up and down when it doesn't have any ice cream on it.

(It's a treat. He's not supposed to tell anyone, and he doesn't plan on it. This is their secret, now.)

He also enjoys the way Arashi tuts softly and leans over the table to wipe his mouth with his thumb, a smear of strawberry going with it, and he likes how Arashi's tongue sweeps across the pad of his thumb with a satisfied home. He especially loves, though, getting Arashi to come to his side of the table, guilt at being sneaky drilling a hole in his heart that's quickly filled with the giggle he earns when he kisses away some sticky sweetness staining his company's lips.


	16. first years: school trip

"I've read about this shrine," Tsukasa's saying beside him, a pleasant smile on his face; Tori's sticking his tongue out beside him, tugging his mouth wider and mocking his words as he talks. Yuta wonders if Tsukasa even notices, then tries not to snicker when he catches the twitch of his eyebrow mid-history lesson. Somewhere not too far behind them, he hears his brother pop out of the bushes at Tetora (an action only made clear by the "manly shout, definitely not a scream" given and Hinata’s laughter bubbling up), and the very tired sigh of their chaperone–Akiomi Kunugi-sensei.

When he turns his attention back to the two heirs, they're pulling each other's cheeks; Hajime's hovering between them, hands up and his eyebrows knitted in concentration as he tries to decide his timing on grabbing their wrists, and Mitsuru’s watching with interest. Sora peeks over his shoulder, giggling a little.

"Tsuka-chan and Tori-chan have fun colors," he informs him very matter-of-factly, and Yuta still wonders what that means as he gives a small nod. "Sora thinks they're good friends! Just like Senpai and Shisho~."

"They're certainly something," he agrees, just in time for Hajime to snatch their hands and tug them away. Tori whimpers and Tsukasa huffs softly, and Yuta sighs softly; Tsukasa really has no right to complain about how their class is viewed when he does stuff like this...

(He huffs when Tori points it out, and they go back to bickering. Tomoya comments on their closeness, and Yuta agrees after a long moment.)

It's better when they get to sit down for lunch, all eleven of them (their chaperone remains standing, surveying them) crowded across two tables. They're loosely grouped by unit—loosely, because three of them belong to units full of senpai and end up sitting together as a result—and Yuta opens his bento just in time for Hinata to slam against his side with a laugh.

"Having fun?" He asks, shifting slightly to accommodate his twin brother, and Hinata hums softly as he digs through his bag.

"Of course! There's nothing dull about hanging with everyone... Hey, Yuta-kun, I think I accidentally put something I wanted in your bento, let's switch—"

"I'll just give you whatever it is? We don't need to switch lunches entirely."

Yuta tugs his box out of Hinata's reach, apologizing when it knocks into Mitsuru's; Mitsuru waves him off, rice already decorating his cheeks, and points his chopsticks at Tomoya and Hajime.

"Hajime-chan made both of those! Don't they look really really good?"

"Ah, yeah— _Aniki,_ " he snaps when he ducks out of the way again, leaning backwards; he feels his head scrap the ground, and someone he's pretty sure is Tsukasa makes a soft _ooh_ ing noise. "Seriously, can you stop...?"

"Only if you seriously switch with me! Yuta-kun!!"

"Stop making a racket," Kunugi calmly cuts in, and the two of them look at him before sitting up and looking away. They eat their lunches quietly, at least until he's stop focusing on them—and gone to focus on Tetora instead, who seems to be trying to get Midori to get a bird that's flown in and gotten trapped somewhere only _a tall person like him can reach_. Hinata smiles slightly at him, and Yuta returns it before he dishes over a too sweet omelet roll to his brother.

The rest of the day goes as he expects it to; they visit one more shrine before heading back to the ryokan, silent and tired from walking around all day. Rooming is simply split by classes, and Yuta stares at the dark as he listens to the rest of them begin to settle to bed. 

Not that it lasts.

Tori huffs when Tsukasa hits him with a pillow, citing revenge for an earlier comment, and Yuta smiles with a sigh as the rest of them slowly join in, egged on by some accidental smack; Sora crows quietly something about everyone's colors looking oh so lovely, even in the dark, and when the door opens, the room goes dead silent.

Hinata's chuckle bubbles from the darkness, and Yuta catches the pillow that's tossed at him—it's a distraction though, given his brother's tackling onto him a moment later, and the pillow fight resumes with the addition of a few new fighters from the class over. At least someone has the thought to bring over some blankets too, and Yuta thinks of how long it's been since he slept with his brother in the same bed.

Ages, probably. He searches for Hinata's hand and grasps it beneath the blanket, closing his eyes when he hears a soft "good night" and gives his own in return.


	17. tsukahina: stables au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "but" these cards haven't even been out two days and i'm already writing dumb shit for them i know i know, you can judge me later. do i already have everything planned out? not everything but a good bit of it, thank you.
> 
> this was so quick jdkhg i just needed it out i'm sorry

Cheval Stables is one of Japan's prettiest ranches—one of the jewels of the Suou family, too. Tsukasa's proud to be the heir to it, proud to take care of the horses (with Mika's help, despite his fidgety nature—he's really good with the animals, speaking softly and warmly to them where he stumbles with humans), and more than happy to spend time out in the paddocks and fields.

For more than one reason. The air and atmosphere is nice, but the flowers that turn through the day to follow the sun are lovely to watch, and those taking care of them even more so. Hinata is cute and friendly and always willing to part with a flower or two, and Tsukasa dares not to put a name to the feeling that stays on his hands, in his chest, whenever their fingers brush in exchange. He catches him watching the horses every so often, hanging off the wooden fence with a piece of grass stuck in his mouth (gross, but, okay), and one day, when Tsukasa asks if he'd like to go for a ride, Hinata lights up.

Tsukasa turns his face the way flowers do to find the sun as Hinata runs off to get some more appropriate clothing and shoes on, wondering why the field of helianthus planted on the other side of the dirt road doesn't do the same.

He's nervous, admittedly, when he helps Hinata up, feels his arms around his waist. Not because he's never ridden with anyone—he's done so plenty of times—but none of them have made his palms sweat in his gloves (or maybe that's just summer), or made him feel a little dizzy with their closeness (or maybe that's because it's so hot), or sent his heart into overdrive by asking if he's okay (there's no way to excuse this, except maybe embarrassment at stalling). Tsukasa clears his throat and nods, tells him to hold, and presses his heels into With My Honesty's sides. They start off slow, gaining speed until Hinata's laughing behind him, grip tight but delighted by the speed, and Tsukasa grins to himself as he runs them around the large field. There are small obstacles to jump and dodge left over from another horse's training (he thinks he remembers Narukami-san saying something about practicing with Jewel Stone), and he runs them too.

A little more dangerous, with two people, but so, so worth the way Hinata hugs closer to him, chin pressing into his shoulder.

He slows to a walk once he figures his horse has had enough—no matter their sizes, two people is still two people—and draws back to the fence closest to the field of sunflowers. Hinata leans against him, and Tsukasa can feel a smile pressed on his back. Yuta comes to fetch his wayward brother, catching him when he jumps off the horse with a surprised yell, and Tsukasa smiles warmly at the other twin. Yuta returns it, a little smaller, and Hinata asks if they can do it again sometime. 

He bites back the immediate agreement, not wanting to appear overeager, and nods after a moment of (hopefully not blatant) false consideration.


	18. subanatsu: touch

“Touch me,” he commands, voice soft, and Subaru doesn’t need to be told twice–he doesn’t need to be told at all (because he wants to touch Natsume, always does, always wants to be closer in whatever sense of the word he can be), but he waits to be told to anyway because otherwise he gets pinned with an angry, cat-like stare and the flinch of shoulders hidden by a hunch and a barbed comment. Natsume thinks he doesn’t notice that, but he also thinks he doesn’t notice that he stares at Subaru during class and through the windows of the gymnasium when he has basketball practice…

Natsume makes a vexed noise, and Subaru leans closer, cupping his cheek gently. He presses his thumb to his lips cheekily, smiling when Natsume purses them against it, and closes the distance between them with a happy sigh. He knows he’s done wrong by the way Natsume’s hands twist in his shirt and _shove_ , and he whines when he shifts backwards.

“Didn’t you–”

“I said _touch_ ,” Natsume snaps, fingers curling tighter. “Not kiss. Learn to listen, Baru-kun.”

“Naaatsume! If I touch you, I wanna kiss you~! C’mon, please?”

He looks like he considers it, teeth pulling his bottom lip, before he forces his grip to loosen; Subaru takes the opportunity immediately, moving forward and kissing him again. Natsume pretends to be angry for a little while longer, lips pressed stubbornly together (but not stubbornly enough, considering Subaru has little trouble parting them with his tongue), before he relents and returns the gesture. His hands still twist in the fabric they’ve caught on, but it’s a little less angry than before.


	19. maoritsu: youkai au

Keito will forgive him for going past the splintered red torii that head the path up the mountain, he’s sure; even _he_ wouldn’t be able to keep himself from darting beneath the ropes and paper seals if he heard a scream and someone crashing through branches along with it. He’s sure of that, even if the eerie stillness that slowly registers in his mind makes his feet begin to drag. Mao glances around the path (is it always this quiet? is it the god that’s said to reside here, or is it whatever those seals are supposed to keep away from the shrine?) and jerks his head left when he hears a groan.

The boy he finds curled up at the base of a tree is not human. That’s made apparent from the subtle pressure emanating from him and his strange dress (a loose open grey and black costume, fur lining the neck and beads strewn around his throat and waist, a black top that does very little to cover his skin), and the cherry red eyes that slowly open and peer up at him from beneath curled black bangs confirm it beyond a doubt. Mao backs up a few steps, careful not to trip over his own feet, while the young demon sits up and stretches– and winces immediately, fingers gently cradling his arm. Under closer inspection, there’s something distinctly _off_ about the way it’s bent, and Mao surmises it’s broken or something.

Keito would kill him, he thinks, and then steps forward again. Slowly, gingerly–stopping when the oni jerks his head back up, eyes narrowed and lips pressed in a tight, distrusting line.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers softly, taking another step. The other digs his unhurt hand into the dirt and throws it at him, and Mao raises his arms with a wince. “Hey–”

When he lowers his arms, the boy is gone, and slowly, bug- and birdsong begins to fill the forest again. Mao stares blankly at the spot, wondering if he had just imagined it, and creeps closer to the tree to make certain he didn’t. There’s a spot gouged from the ground, and he kneels down and presses his fingers to it with a frown.

He gets lectured when he returns–not for sneaking past the torii, but for skipping out on one of his shrine duties, and he accepts forgoing dinner as punishment. It gives him more time to collect supplies for going up the mountain, a feat he wisely decides to attempt when night falls. Keito’s fast asleep when he leaves, the moon slowly reaching its peak in the sky, and he again stares at the ropes and paper seals as his bag weighs heavy on his shoulder. He takes a deep breath and gently lifts them, ducking beneath them again and stepping along the path. Mao makes a game of staying on the sparse flat rocks that mark it, only pausing to turn to the area he’d seen the oni in.

There’s no one there, of course, and the bugs still hum in the quiet. He shifts the bag on his shoulder and continues his way up, admitting defeat when the path turns more dirt than stone and he can’t keep his jumps up any more. The moon’s a little ways behind him when a shiver goes through him without warning, and he pauses in the silence.

The dead silence.

The only warning he gets for company is the sudden pressure behind him, and he ducks out of the way of a claw swipe. The boy from before stares at him, his broken arm swinging at his side and the other pulling back for another attempt.

Mao dodges that, too, though it puts him in the disadvantageous position of his back against a tree. He jerks when the claw slams against his shoulder, pinning him there before he can sidestep it again, and the demon leans in. This close, Mao can read curiosity beneath the wariness, and the fact he isn’t dead on his feet right now is a point in his favor. He slowly shifts his bag to his front, lifting it between them, and swallows the nervous lump in his throat.

“I wanted to help.”

The demon narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Mao pauses, the voice piercing clean through him, before he registers the question and thinks, _Well, that’s fair._

“Because you’re hurt and I can’t just ignore that, no matter who or what you are.” Which will be his downfall one day, clearly. Keito would say so, and this demon raises his eyebrows as if to say so, too. He sighs, digging his fingers into the soft leather. “I know. Are you going to let me help you or not?”

“It’ll heal on its own,” comes the soft reply, but the hand comes off of his shoulder and he lets himself relax against the tree as his company steps back. “Leave before I go back on my decision to eat you.”

“If you really wanted to eat me, you would’ve done it the first time instead of throwing dirt at me.” He motions the oni to sit, then motions harder when he doesn’t do so; he kneels beside him when he _does_ , digging through his bag with a sigh. “And you would’ve just done that instead of talking to me, too?”

“We don’t see a lot of you here,” the demon mumbles, gently holding out his arm when Mao gestures for him to do so, and cocks his head when he’s asked for his name. “…Ritsu.”

Mao tucks it beneath his tongue and gets to work; he’s sure Ritsu appreciates the lack of chatter as much as _he_ appreciates being able to focus on his work, and he apologizes before he sets the arm properly. Ritsu hisses at him, fingers digging into his palm, and Mao tries to hurry up his work without cutting corners. There’s no use in getting a demon to sit down and accept help if that help just worsens things in the long run, and he apologizes a second time, a third time, before he’s finished. The last thing he does is fit him with a sling made from some cloth he’d torn off one of his older outfits that he’d outgrown, glad he’d saved it despite its uselessness, and he sits back on his hands with a sigh. Ritsu shifts uncomfortably, staring down at his arm like it’s something alien now that it’s being taken care of properly, and reaches into his outfit to fetch something with his good hand.

The curved stone glitters like the night sky when it swings down on a leather cord. Mao stares at it, holding out his hand when Ritsu shakes it at him, and wonders if it’s warm because it’d been in close proximity or because it just _is_. Both seem reasonable; he isn’t inclined towards most spiritual matters, but he can tell there’s a lot of something in here–but Ritsu is gone by the time he refocuses on the spot in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed–apparently demons are as capable of discreet disappearances as they are distracting ones–or maybe it’s the stone’s fault, considering the morning rays begin to peek through the trees, and Mao finds his body aches as if it’d sat in the same place, the same position, for hours instead of the second he’s sure it’d been.


	20. gen: angel/demons au

Demons consume angels, and angels consume demons.

It’s the first thing they’re taught when they wake up from their sleep, wings tucked neatly behind them, bodies washed and patted dry from whatever covered them, dressed in loose sheer robes to keep them from catching cold. If you don’t eat them, they’ll get you first.

Mao’s never asked questions; he doesn’t remember a time before being born (reborn?) as an angel, and lessons are very sure about this fact of life. It’s easier to just accept it too, especially when the only demons they see this close to the city are shapeless blobs with small wings and smaller fangs, that hiss and snap and everyone–including their own kind. So Mao just–does. He jokes with his friends, he does his assigned duty (finding souls after death and guiding them, his lips twitching whenever someone asks if he’s a grim reaper of some kind), and he eats evil to purge it from the world.

(That’s what it’s called. It sounds more salvation-y like that. Eichi smiles when he says so, black blood staining his mouth like lipstick, and Mao just wonders if he likes being dramatic instead.)

So it’s weird that, when he _does_ meet a demon that looks like him–that’s humanoid, with a round face and lazy lidded eyes, fangs just barely poking out from his upper lip–that neither of them go for the throat immediately. Mao’s frozen, hand on the dagger at his side that’s supposed to be holy and helpful and any number of things, and the demon watches him with a guarded expression from the shadows of the city’s central clocktower. _Demons like him aren’t supposed to be able to get in this far,_ Mao thinks. _They can’t._

The demon’s lips quirk, like he can read minds–maybe he can, can’t demons do something like that?–and he pivots, darting into the tower behind him. Mao finally snaps from his paralysis and, despite logic telling him to get more manpower (because there’s no way this one’s as weak as the ones he routinely takes care of between jobs), follows.

To say he regrets it immediately is putting it lightly. The door slams shut behind him, lock clicking, and before he has a chance to react, he’s twisted around and shoved up against the creaking wood. Panic flutters in his belly at the claws encircling one of his forearms pushed against his back and his other hand–the one with the dagger–is pinned against the door directly. His wings quiver behind him, delicate and vulnerable; if he really wanted to, he could break a few bones by flaring them backwards, but there’s no telling if that’d stun the demon long enough for him to get away. He’d risk hurting his wings too–

It occurs to him he isn’t dead, despite a comment about thinking too long and the accompanying chuckle from behind him. Mao chances a look over his shoulder, lips thinning at the grin that draws fangs into full view, and asks why he hasn’t killed him yet.

The demon tilts his head, thumb rubbing against his wrist–he realizes he’s looking for a pulse, and it’s a shame angels don’t have one for him to find–and he replies he isn’t hungry.

He just wanted to see how he’d react.

* * *

 

Mao jokes with his friends, does his assigned duties, and thinks about the encounter for weeks afterwards. The sighting (sightings, actually, given the one he ran into hadn’t been the sole intruder) had caused a stir in the central chapel, with Eichi and Keito sharing looks and the latter leaving on official business hours later. Business that he still hadn’t returned from, leaving several of the older members of their branch wringing their hands and whispering when they think the newbies are too preoccupied to notice. They’re not, of course, and news travels fast in the spiraling tower dormitories.

Makoto, of course, worries. Tori worries less, or tries to pretend he does, but the toll it takes on Eichi reflects on his face. Natsume stares out the window like he’s considering something, drawing long lines through circles with his quill on the palm of his opposite hand, and Mao thinks about asking him about it–until he’s glared at, and he merely delivers whatever message he’s supposed to before quietly exiting the room and reassuring himself his walk is just brisk, and he isn’t running from some dark and heavy shadow that keeps hanging over him every time he visits the area.

The one day–the one night–he doesn’t think about the incident is the one where he meets the demon, again. He’s late getting back from a soul guidance ceremony, and the gates to the pearly city are devoid of any guards. Something black and wet glistens in the moonlight and he realizes when the smell hits that oh. Oh, that’s blood. Two carcasses drop from above with heavy thuds, bones snapping and cracking from the height, and Mao looks up. The demon from before smiles down at him, blood smeared across his face and hands, and the fatigue in him alchemizes into adrenaline as he shoots backwards with a powerful flap of his wings. He settles with no problems, draws his dagger with no problems, and–

hesitates when it becomes obvious that–again–he isn’t being attacked. The words of the elders ring in his ears again–demons will eat you if you don’t do it first–and he keeps his caution up even as he lowers his weapon.

He shouldn’t be thinking. He should be punishing this demon for coming this close to the city, for devouring two angels at their doorstep, but the church preaches seeking understanding with souls of all kinds, no matter what their documents say they’ve done. Even if you can’t forgive them, even if you can’t give them your blessing, understanding or trying to understand why they did things–why they do things–is a duty above all else.

He’s pretty sure it isn’t supposed to apply to demons.

He tries anyway, and the demon laughs at the question. In the moonlight, at this distance, it’s easier to see the large, leathery bat wings that stretch out lazily across the smooth white bricks, blocking out golden decorative spikes with their darkness. Mao doesn’t get an answer, but when he reports the incident and answers questions, Eichi leans his chin into his hand and rewards him with a name:

Ritsu.

It’s a pretty name–prettier than he thought a demon would have–and Mao doesn’t sleep, mind occupied by corpses and blood and missing wings.


	21. gen: youkai au

"I named you," Tsukasa's voice shakes, fingers grasping the kimono weakly, pulling it down; the hem of it stains red, dark red, with the blood spilling from his arm and his side. The snake turns his head ever so slightly, slit pupils falling to him, and his expression flickers between disdain and indifference. Slender hands slide down and take his own hands, pries his fingers from the cloth, and Tsukasa wheezes. "Please, Izumi—"

"You're not the first," Izumi replies, yanking his hand free of Tsukasa's grip; he ignores the whine that comes after, the whimpering that follows when he falls against the soaked wooden floor, but can't ignore the pull the name given to him has. He _can't_ , and Tsukasa knows he can't—can see it in the way he's slow to step away now, how it takes all his effort to not turn around. 

A little more, and he'd have to help. Tsukasa swallows spit and blood, pushes himself up onto his elbows again and says, a little more steadily: "Save me, Izumi."

The snake twitches and for a moment, Tsukasa thinks he might still leave. He might still beat back the pact unwillingly formed between them and leave him to die, to break it, but Izumi snarls and pivots on his heel instead; in one swift motion, he slips his arms beneath Tsukasa and lifts him, and Tsukasa slumps against his chest with a cry of pain at the rough treatment. He only asked him to save him, he supposes, teeth grit. He hasn't asked him to be nice about it.

Izumi isn't. He ducks between shadows and avoids the fighting plaguing the estate, exiting into the forest just north of it. There's still the smell of blood (maybe that's him, though) and smoke (not him, though), and Tsukasa focuses on the heartbeat by his hand instead of how sick it makes him feel. The bouncy trip eases into soft footfalls as they continue, and he must have fallen asleep— he must have, because Izumi wakes him with a hard shake and a mutter that they're here and to mind his mouth.

Tsukasa almost retorts that he always does, he was raised properly, but he opens his eyes and feels the words slip away like fish in a stream. The person they're in front of isn't human, despite their looks. There's no way someone that slight, that lovely, could be human. He isn't sure how to address them until they speak, voice light and boyish, and it isn't in a language he understands but one that he feels. Izumi replies in kind, and the boy tilts his head before he motions to a mat on the ground and leaves.

At least he's set down with some amount of gentleness. Being flat makes it hard to catch his breath though, feeling them grow shallow, and the boy sits down beside him; he drags his head onto his lap and sets his hands on his cheeks, rubbing them with a laugh.

"You really know how to pick them, huh, Sena?"

Maybe he is human, if he has a name for the snake. Tsukasa blinks and tilts his head just enough to look at Izumi, who flicks his tongue out when he scoffs and stretches out in front of the fire.

"I didn't do anything like that though? That brat found me and decided he needed my help—"

"You were there," Tsukasa replies, voice cracking. Both of their eyes turn to him, and he closes his own. "Of course I'd ask for it. There's— things we need to do, Izumi—"

"Don't speak," the boy cuts in, placing a hand over Tsukasa's mouth, "and don't even think about leaving. Sena's really bad at taking care of people, so you're still on death's door, yeah?"

He waits until Tsukasa's made a noise of agreement to lift his hand off, and then he gets to work. Most of it is blurred by pain, though the bone needle in his side is far too clear for his liking, and not even the numbing spread his doctor rubs across his bared skin can fully dull it. If anything, it only gives him the opportunity to focus on the motion more clearly, the way it goes in and out of his body rhythmically. He can’t sleep despite the way his being aches for it afterwards, not with the soft chatter of Izumi and the other boy a ways from him. Not with the people who murdered his family still out there, though it’s unlikely they’d look for him—as far as they were concerned, he was dead.

It’s probably for the better, but a desire for vengeance forces him to sit up, alerting his two companions; his doctor is quick to push him back down, stronger than he looks, and he scowls when he asks, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“If I’m quick,” Tsukasa mumbles, aware of how delirious and stupid he sounds, “then I can catch up to the people who killed everyone.”

The other stares at him, expression unreadable until it shifts violently back into annoyed, and he pinches his cheek. “You’d die on the way there, if not by their hands, so sit tight and heal up. There’s gonna be plenty of chances for you to do something life-endingly stupid after you’re better.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Izumi comments idly, and the boy glares over his shoulder before he returns his attention back to Tsukasa. Tsukasa squints at them both, one after the other, then tries to sit up again.

The last thing he sees is the other boy’s hand coming down against his head; the first thing he sees after is the sunlight slipping through the cracks in the woods, the trees gently moving up and down. It registers a moment later that he’s being carried, and he sits up slightly to see who it is– ah, the snake he contracted. Izumi’s slit eyes slide to him for just a second before they return ahead, and Tsukasa looks over his shoulder to see the boy from before bouncing on his geta to and fro. _He’ll break them like that,_ he thinks to himself, but it never comes true, not even when they fall hard on stone crossing a river. Izumi simply wades through it, holding Tsukasa a little higher to keep him dry (he shivers when his toes get too close to the water), and he finally learns the other boy’s name from an old woman they stop in to see to stock up on salve: 

Leo.


	22. eiwata: sick day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by @spacetier on twitter! check out my twitter over at @espousal for more information on requesting from me.

It isn't surprising for Wataru to miss class—he seems to come just enough that he doesn't risk expulsion or being held back, not that Eichi would allow either of those to happen, an abuse of his presidential power or not—but it's surprising that their daily journal is only filled with Eichi's elegant writing for more than a day or two. That, at least, is the one thing they keep updated, that they make certain to pass between their classes, and he stares at his own handwriting until it blurs into a jumble of black ink.

He's shuffling through student files in the student council room when Keito comes in; he hears him make a surprised noise, but doesn't falter in flipping through them. Even in the idol course, there are dozens and dozens of students aside from the ones he's become familiar with, and finding Wataru in all of them is no easy task, even with Keito's penchant for filing things perfectly. His bright, grandiose demeanor doesn't transfer so well to manila folders and ordered cabinets, and he brightens considerably upon finding—

Oh, no. Not the right one.

Eichi slides it away as Keito slides into the seat next to him, looking slightly concerned until he realizes he's doing absolutely no work at all; it shifts to its usual tiredness, and when Keito asks him what he's doing, Eichi pauses on his next folder. He rubs the corner of it, slowly rounding it with his thumb, and looks over.

“Wataru hasn't been in,” he replies, and Keito mumbles something that sounds a lot like  _ thank goodness for that _ . Eichi ignores it, aware that his best friend is going to be just as worried as soon as the idea settles longer in his head. “I was intending to visit him, but then I recalled I didn't know his address... So I thought I'd simply look for it.”

“Looking through private folders is against school rules,” Keito replies; when Eichi points out he's the student council president and he can do whatever he wants, Keito shakes his head. “No, you can't—even we have rules we have to follow.”

Eichi purses his lips at him. Keito stares and, with a sigh, reaches for the folders that have been left untouched.

Two pairs of hands (four eyes,  _ six _ if you count Keito's glasses) work faster than one, especially when one of them is the one who normally manages organization, and in short order Eichi has a folder with the familiar, beautiful characters of _ Hibiki Wataru _ in his hands, the printed strokes every bit as ostentatious as the man himself. It isn't as if he hasn't looked in here before—cursory, researching his opponents and their circumstances so as to better prepare himself for the war he'd come to wage, the idea he'd grown and that Keito had helped to take care of—but it's different, going here for his personal address, for something that (despite their closeness, despite that Eichi would give the moon to him if he only asked, despite the look he'd certainly be given if he were serious about it, rather than metaphorical) Wataru had never given him, not even a hint. Keito clears his throat when he stalls for too long and Eichi, feeling heat on the back on his neck, opens the folder to the first page.

Wataru's grinning picture greets him and he pauses, staring at it (he's so beautiful even now, even without the mystery and unreachability that had attracted him before, that had made him want to tear everything down just to reach a point they could stand beside each other—with the bettering of the school as the main idea, the fact he could orchestrate it all to be closer to his idea was a happy bonus he had planned for), then lets his gaze drift to the information laid down neatly beside it. He puts the address into his phone as soon as he finds it and confirms it's the only one they have on record and, hoping to God that it's up-to-date and he isn't just going to find an empty flat or something like that, waits with thin patience for the end of his day to come.

If his clubmates notice (and Ritsu, at least, must, considering he's as sharp as his older brother), they don't say anything. Eichi sips at his tea and contributes to the thoughtless-type of conversation they have every meeting, wishing them well once they adjourn.  _ fine _ doesn't have unit practice today due to Wataru's absence, but he sees Tori and Yuzuru heading to a practice room regardless—he admires their vigor and, if not for the mission he has in mind, would probably join them. He feels fine today; it's half the reason he's hurrying to head to the address set in his phone's GPS, not wanting to waste a second of his good health.

(Keito's already offered the warning that if he isn't careful, whatever that incorrigible person has could take that out in a moment's notice; Eichi had taken it to heart, truly, definitely, but that wasn't going to stop him. They both knew that.)

The flat is surprisingly normal, in a normal neighborhood one train away from school, with normal families and normal sights around it. Eichi feels slightly out of place, watching children sit on the stairs talking, their parents keeping a careful eye on them from their doorways, but he checks the apartment number on his phone and slowly heads up the four flights of stairs to Wataru's floor. Naturally he'd live on the top floor of this place, where else would he stay—? Eichi's not as winded as he could be when he reaches the landing, head turning immediately to find which way he should turn to find the number he needs. The door, too, is ordinary, once he finds it.

He double-checks to see if this is truly the one he's supposed to be at and, finding everything identical, presses the buzzer beside it. There's no immediate reply, but Eichi's skilled at waiting—with no patience at all, but waiting all the same—and he tugs at his sleeves and blazer in an idle act, born from this waiting and definitely not from the nervousness he hasn't felt since last year beginning to crawl up his back. The door opens after a long while, Wataru with his hair completely undone and just in pajama pants, colored pale everywhere but the red that settles under his eyes and around his nose; for a moment, all they do is stare, taking each other in, before Eichi politely flicks his gaze away, and Wataru shuts the door on his face.

The next time it opens, he's slightly more dressed and his hair is brushed, at the very least. He still looks awful, but there's a grin stretched from ear to ear like any other day.

“Eichi! To what do I owe the honor! Ah, it's truly  _ Amazing _ how you made it here on your own, how you figured out where your very own Wataru Hibiki lives...♪”

“It wasn't anything so hard,” Eichi replies smoothly, unable to help the smile that surfaces despite the worry that bubbles beneath his skin at the hoarseness of Wataru's voice, barely concealed by his volume. “I simply looked into the school's files... May I come in? It's a little chilly out here.”

Wataru— hesitates for just a moment, but it's so brief that Eichi fancies he must have imagined it as Wataru steps back to let him step in. He takes in the flat as the door shuts behind him, as he toes off his shoes in the entrance, eager for a side he's never gotten to see before. The television is on, though the screen is paused, and there's a box of tissues on the ground beside the couch; bowls are scattered here and there, jackets hung up with care. Pictures dot the walls here and there, and a room he presumes to be Wataru's has the door tightly shut. The color is what he'd expect from a suburban flat, but not from someone as grand and larger than life as Wataru Hibiki.

This too, he surmises, is a human part of him, and he turns his attention back to his company as a cup of tea is held out to him by some hair; Eichi laughs, finding himself never tired with this trick, and takes the cup gratefully. It's a little weak, and Wataru looks a little tired to have moved his hair so quickly, and he keeps both in mind as he takes a seat where he's offered it—though he keeps wanting to peek over his shoulder at the small kitchenette, curious as to its innards. The tea had come out of nowhere, almost like magic; and while magician he might be, even Wataru couldn't have made tea (poor as it might be) that quickly, could he...?

Maybe he just had some sitting around. That wouldn't explain the weakness of it, but the quickness... He's drawn out of his thoughts by Wataru's hand on his shoulder, the effervescent young man smiling bright despite his color and the sunkenness of his eyes.

“You never answered me, about why you came.” His voice, softer now, sounds more like himself despite how used Eichi is to the loudness. Eichi sips his tea, expression carefully polite despite the taste. “So, Eichi? To what do I owe the honor? If it's for a trick, then your clown will perform it for you in an instant! If it's for homework, then he will instead fly out the window and let someone else take care of it...☆”

“You hadn't come to school for a few days and I was worried for you,” Eichi replies. He finds the daily journal in his bag as he talks, handing it off to Wataru. “I missed our correspondence as well...”

“Ah, sorry! I attempted to go to school many times just to write in our journal, but I was turned away from the gate just as many times...♪” Wataru flips to the latest pages and settles in beside him, legs crossed, taking up as much space as usual. Eichi doesn't mind usually, but the knee in his side is a little, hm, not so great, and he shifts a little to accommodate. “How thoughtful of you to visit me though, Eichi! I'm surprised, how wonderful, is this love? Ah, how incredible it is—“

He loves the sound of Wataru's voice normally, but the longer he talks, the less convincing it sounds, and Eichi stalls it with a hand on his cheek. Wataru's gaze lifts from the book, finding his after a tell-tale moment of lethargy, and Eichi smiles as easily as he always does, around him.

“You're sick.” His voice is hush, aware this is a secret between them. “Don't try so hard, Wataru... You're no less interesting to me right now. Rather, it's surprising to see such a human side to you as well; I'm delighted to know there are parts of you I still haven't glimpsed...”

His eyes trail to the screen from his company’s open look (caught off-guard, like his heart’s stopped a moment), still paused, and with as little regard to his health as ever (well, he cares for it, just not as much as Keito would like him to), shifts closer to Wataru, resting his head on his shoulder. He can feel him slowly relax, hand resting in Eichi’s hair and playing with the strands as if he has something to apologize for—maybe for not concealing things well enough. He likes to think he knows Wataru, a little; likes to think he can tell these sorts of things; likes to feel  _ right _ as Wataru deflates completely against him after a moment more, curling more against his side with a long sigh and a defeated, but not unhappy, laugh. 

Eichi smiles, and, once he’s sure that Wataru isn’t  _ too _ upset or anything at being found out, because it’s easy to notice that particular thing, given he’s hardly shy about letting Eichi know exactly what he thinks, he never has been— he broaches the quiet with: “Did I interrupt your movie?”

“I hadn't been watching it closely anyway,” the answer comes after a moment, muffled by Eichi’s hair against his mouth. Wataru moves his head a little to be a little more heard, voice quiet to keep it from straining any further (a warmth unfurls at this, a flower slowly stretching its petals in the center of his chest). “I'd been making some tea for my throat, and checking on the state of my soup... Ah, my soup.”

He leans away for Wataru to get up, watching him extract himself from the couch and (more reluctantly, or maybe he just fancies it so) from Eichi's side, and his gaze follows him into the kitchenette. He seems to fiddle with a small appliance he can't quite see, and so he joins him after a moment, peering around him curiously. Ah, what a strange little thing—not very small, but not large either—a pressure cooker, perhaps? He'd only read about these online, and he chuckles when Wataru backs up into him with a small  _ oh! _

“My apologies, Wataru... I was only curious about your friend here.”

“Ah, he's nothing so interesting...” Though Wataru, at his prompting, shows him how to use it and what he'd been making (a simple vegetable soup); normally he might use the stove, he only somewhat reluctantly explains, but he'd been a little fatigued and hadn't wanted to stand for long. Eichi soaks up the information, relishes in this side of Wataru only he gets to see—he's sure even his old friends haven't seen him like this—and allows himself to be guided back to the couch with minimum stalling.

(He asks after the electric tea kettle and microwave and other appliances too, warmed by the delight laughing in Wataru's eyes as he explains such ordinary things.)

The couch is as comfy, but not as warm, as they left it, and Wataru sips at his soup quietly as he hits play on the remote. (Incredible.) Eichi finds a blanket on the floor with his feet and tugs it over their legs, heart drumming with a pleasant inconsistency in his chest when Wataru shifts to melt against his side. The journal lays spine-side up on the cushion beside him—it hasn't been forgotten he's sure, just being taken care of, so that no soup spills on it or any other unsightly marks gets on the pages they've so carefully made their own. A quiet act of love, at odds with how loud he usually is, that makes him happy regardless.

That Wataru can do both, be both, and mean it so earnestly; for him to snooze defenseless against his shoulder ten minutes from the movie's climax, chest rising and falling quietly; it makes him more than happy. Content to be alive, to be living, Eichi runs his fingers through Wataru's hair and closes his eyes, too, wondering that if he sleeps now, so close to him, they'll meet in their dreams as well.

He'd like that, even if reality continues to prove itself far better than any dream he could ever imagine, in the past and especially now, with Wataru tucked into him so pleasantly.

 


	23. subanatsu: christmas

"You're lucky I love YOU," Natsume mumbles, crushed beneath the weight of Subaru, their fir tree (with Natsume's two cats holding onto it for dear life), and Daikichi. If he didn't, he wouldn't stand for this—any of it—living together, celebrating Christmas, helping decorate—he wouldn't. He really, really wouldn't. He also wouldn't stand for the way Subaru laughs bright and happy, wrapping his arms around Natsume's middle instead of doing something actual useful, like pushing the tree off of them, or helping their pets, or something like that.

"You love me~? Natsume~!" The words are paired with a sweet kiss against his neck, one that makes Natsume twitch a little and tighten his grip on Subaru's shirt. "Haha, that's embarrassing... Say it again, but like, louder! I want the neighbors to hear!!"

"Now who's embarrasSING...?" He sighs, his cheeks hot and not just from Subaru pressing theirs together, his breath warm on his earrings. "And of course I DO. We've been dating for three YEARS, Baru-kun. Do you think I'd stick around with you otherWISE? You couldn't pay me enough to do THAT."

"But you're doing it for free now," Subaru replies without missing a beat, finally pushing himself up with a grunt after he kisses Natsume one more time. The tree shifts, its ornaments jingling and his poor cats finally realizing they can get down and doing so with haste; Daikichi darts after them, barking good-naturedly, and Subaru shoves the tree the rest of the way off of them.

He doesn't move though, looking down at Natsume with a grin, and Natsume tilts his head, aware of the way his hanging earrings (a gift from Wataru) move with it, how they must catch on the light—Subaru's eyes catch on them, cinching this thought, and he wets his lips when Subaru slowly looks back to him and sinks back down, propping himself up on his elbows. Natsume meets him a little less than halfway, exhaling softly as they kiss, and the (perfect, sweet, tender) moment is ruined as a cat lands squarely on Subaru's back, claws digging past his festive red shirt; he yelps, jerking a little to try and knock it off, and Natsume laughs as the cat leaps off and tumbles beside them, looking terrified.

At least he catches Daikichi before he can chase the other back into the fallen tree; he huffs and scolds him softly, and Natsume scoops up his cats and kisses the tops of their heads. Subaru frowns at him and Natsume, rolling his eyes slightly, turns his face down to mumble his own scoldings in their twitching ears.

The tree gets righted and the pets put to bed (time-out, Natsume calls it, but Subaru shakes his head), and one by one the lights in their apartment flick off, until only the glow of the ones they've hung up for the season remain. Natsume lingers by the kitchen doorway, watching the way Subaru's face lights up as he looks from one glittering place to another, and smiles briefly against his hand before he pushes off the doorway, joining him in the center of the room. There are things that have changed since the day he approached Subaru in that empty classroom— they're both a little more famous, both a little more busy, both a little older, a little more mellow than they were as teenagers, and they can drink too, if they really want— and then there are things that haven't, like how warm his company is, or how dumb he can be, or how annoyingly sharp he is. How enamored he is with things that sparkle and shine, how he resembles a star itself when he's excited and happy, on stage and off of it.

Natsume hums when Subaru nudges his head with his nose, complying with the silent request to look at him; he doesn't know why he's surprised every time this happens, when the same thing happens every time (a kiss, more gentle than he expects from someone as full of restless energy as Subaru), but his grip tightens and twists into his shirt anyway, heart snapping against his ribcage and breath huffing out suddenly.


End file.
